PAM 
DECIDES 


BETTIMAVON  HUTTEN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Ben  B.  Lindsey 


PAM  DECIDES 


A  Sequel  to  "Pam 


By  BETTINA  von  HUTTEN 

Author  of 
1  Our  Lady  of  the  Beeches,"  "  Violette,"  etc. 


With  Four  Illustrations 
By  B.  MARTIN  JUSTICE 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  Publishers 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  w 
BETTINA  VON  HUTTEK 


All  Rights  Rutrvtd 

Published,  April, 


pa 

60/5" 


To  those  who  understood  and  liked  Pam  and 
have  asked  me  what  happened  to  her,  I  dedi- 
cate this  conclusion  of  her  story. 

B.  v   H 

STEINBACH, 

November  g, 


1106188 


SYNOPSIS 

FOR  THOSE  TO  WHOM,  AS  YET,  PAM  IS  A 
STRANGER. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  that  mckes  a  woman's  life  happy,  and  that  is  the  thing  rhe 
took.  And  having  taken  it  and  found  it  better  than  all  the  rest  pat  together,  would  you 
bare  her  pretend  to  be  sorry?" — PAM. 

Although  many  years  have  passed  since  her  elopement  with  the 
celebrated  tenor,  "  Guy  Sacheverel,"  the  daughter  of  Lord  Yeoland, 
of  Monks'  Yeoland,  has  never  regretted  the  step  that  brought  sorrow, 
not  only  to  an  adoring  father,  but  also  to  the  singer's  deserted 
wife,  Mrs.  Kennedy.  Nor,  would  Pauline  Yeoland  ever  consent 
to  adopt  any  of  the  subterfuges  customary  with  people  similarly 
placed ;  but  insisted  on  being  addressed  by  her  baptismal  name. 
Furthermore,  the  true  situation,  together  with  the  reasons  therefor, 
was  not  withheld  from  their  child  Pam,  who  accordingly,  when 
questioned  as  to  her  name,  would  reply  ingenuously:  "Just  Pamela. 
It  appears  that  children  whose  parents  are  not  married,  have  only 
one  name." 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  general  disbelief  in  the  permanency  of 
love  under  such  conditions,  the  life  of  her  parents  in  the  "  Villa 
Arcadie,"  in  Southern  Italy,  continued  to  contain  a  happiness  so 
great  that  the  child  was  always  contrasting  it  with  that  of  those  in 
the  married  state,  and  deducing  therefrom,  with  the  incontrovertible 
logic  of  youth,  that  necessarily,  the  cause  of  their  unhappiness 
must  be  the  marriage  rite.  But  obviously,  the  attractions  of  such 
a  menage  appealed  more  especially  to  the  brilliant  laxists  sojourn- 
ing on  these  shores;  and  among  those  to  enjoy  its  hospitality  were: 
Charnley  Burke,  an  Australian — afterwards  devoted  to  Pam — and 
the  celebrated  actress,  Mde.  Ravoglia,  whose  friendship  lasted 
through  life,  and  who  bequeathed  all  of  her  jewelry  to  the  young 
girl. 

In  due  course,  the  steward  Cazalet  comes  from  Monks'  Yeoland 
to  fetch  Pam  for  a  visit  to  his  Lordship;  and  accompanied  by  her 
nurse  Pilgrim,  she  goes  there  and  meets  her  cousins  Evelyn — after- 
wards Lady  Chesney — and  Ratty,  who  promptly  falls  in  love  with 
her.  Also,  she  makes  the  acquaintance  of  other  old  friends  of  her 


SYNOPSIS 

grandfather,  including  the  Duchess  of  Wight  and  her  daughter, 
Lady  Henrietta  Shanklin.  Pam  and  G.F.  (as  she  affectionately 
calls  her  grandfather)  are  becoming  great  friends  when  two  invi- 
tations are  received  by  her:  one  to  visit  the  Duchess;  the  other,  to 
Pam's  consternation,  from  Mrs.  Kennedy,  whose  health  is  fast 
failing,  and  who  is  begging  for  a  sight  of  the  child  of  her  husband. 
Lord  Yeoland  insists  upon  her  acceptance  of  that  of  the  Duchess; 
but  Pam,  despite  his  threats  of  disownment,  chooses  to  visit  her 
"  father's  wife."  On  the  way  there,  Pam  meets  James  Peele,  a 
brilliant  member  of  Parliament,  and  whom,  at  her  grandfather's 
house,  she  has  overheard  making  a  proposal  of  marriage  to  Lady 
Henrietta.  The  home  of  Peele  and  that  of  Mrs.  Kennedy  are  in 
the  same  village.  Consequently,  the  man  and  girl  are  thrown 
much  together  until  the  death  of  Mrs.  Kennedy,  who,  dying,  has 
extorted  a  solemn  promise  from  Pam  to  induce  her  parents  to 
marry — a  promise  which  was  afterwards  fulfilled. 

Following  this  crisis,  Pam  is  caught  in  a  thunderstorm.  For 
shelter  she  goes  to  Peele's  house,  and  terribly  frightened,  she 
rushes  into  his  arms,  where  she  is  discovered  by  Charnley  Burke, 
who,  coming  to  the  village  for  the  purpose  of  asking  her  to  become 
his  wife,  has  followed  her  there  through  the  storm.  Misunder- 
standing an  innocent  situation  and  wild  with  jealousy,  he  denounces 
her  with  bitter  words,  leaves  the  house  and  soon  after  sails  for 
Australia. 

Once  more,  Pam  is  in  her  beloved  Arcadia,  with  Peele  trying  to 
persuade  her  to  allow  him  to  break  his  engagement  with  Lady 
Henrietta  and  marry  her.  But  although  Pam  acknowledges  her 
love,  and  gladly  will  go  anywhere  with  him,  her  old  objection  to 
marriage  remains  paramount.  For  the  moment,  all  that  is  best 
of  manhood  in  Peele  rises  to  combat,  unsuccessfully,  her  folly. 
Yet,  later  on,  when  her  parents  are  in  Japan  and  her  grandfather 
has  died,  neglecting  to  alter  his  will  and  leaving  her  practically 
penniless,  Peele,  apparently  acquiescent,  proposes  that  she  shall  go 
with  him  to  South  Africa.  The  girl  joyfully  accepts  and  they 
are  perfecting  their  plans  when,  fortunately,  his  brutal  selfishness 
is  revealed  to  her;  for  he  has  the  effrontery  to  contend  that,  before 
their  flight,  his  career  demands  marriage  with  Lady  Henrietta. 
Pam  dismisses  him  forever,  as  she  imagines,  but  in  her  heart  has 
already  forgiven  the  seemingly  repentant  man.  Then,  immediately, 
together  with  her  old  nurse  Pilgrim,  she  sets  out  to  make  her  living, 
in  accordance  with  one  of  her  sayings: 

"  There  is  no  ready-made  position  for  me  in  the  world,  so  I  shall, 
thank  God,  be  able  to  make  my  own  position." 


PAM     DECIDES 


PART      ONE 


CHAPTER  I 

PAMELA  YEOLAND  awoke  on  the  morning  of  her 
twenty-seventh  birthday  on  the  third  floor  of  a  Blooms- 
bury  boarding-house.  Yawning  luxuriously,  she  turned  over, 
rubbed  her  eyes,  and  then  lay,  her  head  on  one  arm,  gazing 
at  a  chest  of  drawers  that,  flattered  by  the  faint  light  into 
something  like  an  appearance  of  respectability,  chanced  to 
block  her  line  of  vision. 

And  as  she  lay  there,  lazily  enjoying  the  magic  comfort 
of  one's  last  half-hour  in  bed  on  a  cold  November  morning, 
the  ghosts  of  her  seven  last  birthdays  trooped  staidly  before 
her  mental  eyes. 

The  preceding  one  had  been  spent  in  a  nearly  similar 
establishment  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  same  street;  the 
two  before  it  in  a  temperance  hotel  in  Montague  Place; 
then  came  one  in  Guilford  Street;  two  in  Henrietta  Street, 
Cavendish  Square,  in  lodgings  that  seemed,  thus  seen  by 
the  blazing  torch  of  contrast,  palatial,  as  she  recalled 
them. 

The  birthday  before  these  two  had  been  passed  at  an  hotel 
near  Paddington,  and  at  the  memory  of  it,  softened  and 
blurred  as  it  had  become  with  the  passing  of  the  years,  the 
girl  shivered  uneasily  in  her  bed  and  frowned,  for  it  had 
been  a  very  dreadful  day. 

But  beyond  it,  dwindling  down  to  a  vague  recollection  of 


2  PAM    DECIDES 

pink  cakes  and  burning  candles,  much  be-frilled  wax  chil- 
dren, and  parental  embraces,  stretched  many  more  little 
birthdays,  all  of  them  happy  ones. 

The  earliest  she  could  remember  was  in  Rome  and  the 
cake  alone  was  distinct;  then  came  several  more  in  Italy, 
one  in  Florence,  when  her  father  had  bought  her  a  string 
of  pink  corals  on  the  Goldsmiths'  Bridge,  one  in  some  small 
city  when,  being  afflicted  with  the  mumps,  she  had  been 
most  miserable,  though  exceptionally  feted  and  cossetted. 
And  then,  as  the  anniversaries  marched  sedately  towards 
that  awful  one  in  London,  came  one  in  Paris,  two  by  the 
sea, — a  blue  southern  sea, — and  one  most  dear  at  Monks* 
Yeoland,  when  her  grandfather  had  been  alive.  And  this 
was  number  twenty-seven,  then. 

The  ochre-coloured  daylight,  pressing  in  at  the  two  win- 
dows, brought  into  slowly  increasing  distinctness  the  maps 
of  fabulous  lands  that  Time,  by  the  means  of  cracks  and 
tears,  had  produced  on  the  dingy  blinds,  and  revealed  more 
plainly  the  sordid  ugliness  of  the  room.  Relentlessly  day 
withdrew  from  the  worn  carpet,  the  cheap  brown  bedstead 
and  chairs,  the  flyblown  picture-frames  within  which  the 
pictures  seemed  to  shrink  shamefacedly,  the  kindly  veil  night 
had  spread  over  them;  the  cracks  in  the  discoloured  ceiling 
reappeared,  the  spider-web  that  had  adorned  one  corner  of 
it  /or  many  months,  the  strange  monster  on  the  hearth-rug, 
the  much-mended  tin  bath  behind  the  table. 

Everything  miserably  sordid,  ugly,  and  depressing,  though 
showing  in  one  or  two  objects  and  arrangement*  an  attempt 
at  comfort. 


PAM    DECIDES  3 

The  girl  in  the  bed,  after  a  whimsical  glance  at  her  sur- 
roundings, shrugged  her  thin  shoulders  and,  tossing  back 
the  long  dark  hair  that  billowed  about  her  face,  sneezed 
violently. 

Then,  as  she  rummaged  under  despondently  featherless 
pillows  for  her  handkerchief,  she  said  aloud  to  herself, 
"  Salute,  mia  cara,  e  mille  auguri! " 

Having  thus  congratulated  herself  on  the  anniversary  of 
her  birth,  she  looked  at  her  watch,  and  with  a  last  shiver 
on  the  brink  of  the  cold  room,  sprang  up,  set  a  match  to  the 
meagrely-laid  fire,  and  a  few  minutes  later  was  making  a 
funny  little  unmusical  noise  that  was  the  nearest  to  singing 
that  she  had  ever  been  able  to  compass,  as  she  went  about 
her  simple  toilet. 

She  was  nearly  dressed  when  immediately  following  a 
single  knock  the  door  opened  and  a  grimy  maid-servant 
appeared,  bearing  a  box  and  some  letters.  "  Oh,  Miss  Yeo- 
land,  jis'  look!  It's  from  the  country, — and  four  letters! 
Oh,  Miss  Yeoland,  did  you  write?  The  candle's  burnt 
down,  I  see " 

Pam  twisted  her  thick  rope  of  hair  into  a  flat  coil  on  her 
head,  and  pinned  it  firmly  with  some  big  pins.  Then, 
glancing  at  a  pile  of  closely-written  sheets  of  foolscap  on  the 
table,  nodded. 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  till  nearly  one.  The  Duke  is  going  to  run 
off  with  her,  just  as  you  suggested,  and  poor  Sir  Lancelot 
nearly  goes  out  of  his  wits.  His  sufferings,  Mildred,"  she 
added,  solemnly,  "  are  something  terrific !  " 

The    maid-of-all-work    clasped    her    unappetising-looking 


4  PAM   DECIDES 

hands  in  excited  ecstasy.  "Oh,  Miss  Yeoland!  But  she 
does  escaipe,  doesn't  she?  'E  must  suffer  something  crool, 
but  she  does  escaipe ! " 

Pam,  who  had  opened  a  letter,  nodded  absently.  "  Oh 
yes,  she  escapes,"  she  returned ;  "  oh  dear,  yes.  There's  a 
rope-ladder,  and  a  faithful  retainer,  and — and  things  like 
that, — I  say,  Mildred,  open  the  box,  will  you  ?  " 

A  minute  later  the  room  was  sweet  with  the  luxurious 
scent  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  Pam  stood  holding  a  spray 
of  stephanotis  to  her  face,  her  eyes  bright  with  pleasure. 
There  were  roses,  bits  of  heliotrope,  and  violets.  And  they 
came  from  one  who  had  always  been  her  friend. 

Her  imagination,  through  long  training,  was  able  to  bring 
as  if  before  her  very  eyes  the  things  of  which  she  thought, 
and  now  she  was  seeing  an  old  house  in  the  country,  soft, 
green  lawns,  tall  trees,  most  of  them  old  oaks,  brown  in  the 
late  autumn,  bright  windows,  an  ancient  ruin  covered  with 
ivy,  and  then,  off  to  the  left,  where  her  material  eyes  could 
not  have  seen  them  had  she  stood  whence  she  saw  the  ruin 
and  the  house-front,  the  gleaming  line  of  hot-  and  green- 
houses from  which  the  flowers  had  come. 

"  Oh,  Miss, — do  mike  'im,  the  dook,  send  *er  flowers  like 
these  'ere  white  ones! " 

Positively  open-mouthed,  Mildred  stood  gazing  and  sniff 
ing.  Pam  started.  "  Yes,  Mildred,  I  will,"  she  said ;  "  and 
now  you  may  go."  Taking  a  white  rose,  a  bit  of  Cape 
jessamine  and  a  sprig  of  heliotrope  she  put  them  into  the 
other  girl's  dingy  hand,  and  with  an  incoherent  "  Oh  Miss, 
thank  you,"  Mildred,  pathetic  possessor  of  a  beautiful  name, 


PAM    DECIDES  5 

went  pounding  down  the  stairs,  nearly  as  much  surprised 
as  if  someone  had  plucked  a  star  for  her. 

After  a  moment  Pam  sat  down  and  re-read  her  letter. 

*'  Monks'  Yeoland,  November  13." 
"  MY  DEAR  Miss  PAM  : — • 

"  Another  year  has  passed  by,  and  we  are  all  just  so  much 
older.  My  dear  young  lady,  I  wish  you  many  happy  returns 
of  the  day.  I  can  hardly  realise  that  you  are  seven-and- 
twenty.  That  it  is  really  seventeen  years  since  I  rang  at 
your  father's  door,  there  by  the  sea,  and  you  opened  it,  your 
monkey  in  your  arms.  I  remember  it  all  so  well, — so  well. 
Indeed,  now  that  I  am  so  old,  I  find  I  remember  best  the 
things  of  long  ago.  I  can  positively  smell  the  heliotrope  that 
grew  all  over  in  such  abundance,  and  you  as  you  were 
then,  with  your  big  eyes,  and  your  big  coil  of  hair,  I  re- 
call better  than  I  can  the  lovely  young  lady  I  saw  three 
years  ago  in  London!  I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  that  poor 
Jane  has  been  so  ill,  and  trust  that  she  is  now  quite  well 
again. 

"  His  Lordship  asked  most  kindly  for  you  the  other  day. 
His  Lordship  is  most  kind  always,  but  times  have  sadly 
changed  for  me  since  your  dear  grandfather's  death.  If  all 
•ace's  friends  lived,  old  age  would  not  be  sad  at  all,  I  some- 
times think.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  seen  Lady  Chesnev- 
Please  give  her  my  respects  and  regards. 

"  In  the  hope  that  these  flowers,  the  gift  of  Mr.  M'Whfe 
ter,  will  please  you,  he  begs  me  to  send  you  his  respects. 

"  I  beg  you  to  send  my  kindest  regards  and  respects  to 


6  PAM    DECIDES 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacheverel,  when  you  write,  and  I  am,  my 
dear  Miss  Pam, 

"Your  affectionate  and  faithful  serv't, 

"  CHRISTOPHER  CAZALET." 

Pam  folded  the  letter,  her  eyes  wet.  "  Dear  old  Cazzy, 
I  wish  I  could  see  him!  What  an  old  lamb  he  is.  Now, — • 
let's  see  what  Ratty  has  to  say !  " 

"  Dear  Pam,"  de  Rattrec  Gilbert  Yeoland  Maxse  had  to 
say,  on  the  thick  grey  paper  of  his  regiment,  "  I  think  you 
are  really  rather  a  rotter  never  to  write  to  me.  I  think  you 
must  be  pretty  ashamed  of  the  way  you  live,  or  you  would 
let  me  know  where  you  are !  So  do  be  sensible  and  write  to 
me.  I  can  tell  you,  my  good  girl,  it  isn't  every  fellow  in  my 
position  who  would  bother  about  a  girl  in  yours,  and  you 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  me,  instead  of  ignoring  my  let- 
ters, and  forbidding  that  old  ass  Cazalet  to  tell  me  your 
address. 

"  I  was  down  at  the  old  place  last  week  for  a  week,  and 
Julia  Yeoland  told  me  that  she  had  heard  you  were  on  the 
Variety-stage,  but  that  isn't  true,  or  I'd  have  seen  you.  I 
write  now  to  wish  you  many  happy  returns.  ( Do  you  remem- 
ber the  birthday  when  I  chased  you  up  the  old  tower  in  the 
ruin,  and  the  awful  row  we  had?)  You  always  were  a 
little  wild-cat.  And  do  write  and  let  a  fellow  know  how 
you  are.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  wanting  to  marry 
you  any  more,  that  was  only  calf-love,  as  they  say.  I  have 
been  in  love  no  end  of  times  since,  but  I  want  to  know  how 


PAM    DECIDES  7 

you  are.     Evey  says  you  looked  pretty  shabby  the  last  time 
she  saw  you,  and  the  Duchess  is  furious  with  you  for  youi 
behaviour  to  her.    So  buck  up  and  send  a  line  to 
"  Your  affectionate  Cousin, 

"  DE  R.  G.  Y.  MAXSE." 

"  Almost  every  sentence  begins  with  '  I ',"  commented 
Pam  aloud  to  herself;  "  poor  old  Ratty,  what  an  idiot  he  is!  " 

The  next  letter  was  a  bill  from  a  French  charcutier  in 
Holborn,  and  the  last  one,  had  Mildred,  whose  broad  thumb 
had  made  a  big  smudge  on  it,  but  known,  was  from  the 
Duchess  of  Wight! 

"  DEAR  PAM  : — 

"  Fred  Yeoland  tells  me  that  old  Cazalet  is  the  one  mem* 
ber  of  the  clan  with  whom  you  deign  to  remain  in  communi- 
cation, so  as  I  very  much  want  news  of  you,  I  am  sending 
this  down  to  him  to  be  forwarded.  My  dear  child,  where 
and  how  are  you? 

"  It  is  over  two  years  since  I  met  you  that  day  outside 
Hatchard's,  and  until  last  Monday  I  have  not  had  a  glimpse 
of  you.  And  on  Monday,  as  you  were  on  a  'bus,  hobnobbing 
shamelessly  with  the  driver,  and  I  in  my  lowly  victoria 
trying  to  cross  Piccadilly  at  Sackville  Street,  the  view  was 
not  very  satisfying! 

"  Why  did  you  not  answer  my  letter?  And  where  are 
von.  o,p4  is  poor  Jane  Pilgrim,  excellent  woman,  still  alive? 
Please  write  and  tell  me  these  things,  for  although  you  have 
behaved  so  abominably  to  one  of  your  grandfather's  oldest 


-     8  PAM    DECIDES 

friends,  and  though  it  is  high  time  that  you  gave  up  your 
ridiculous,  runaway  tricks,  I  still  love  you,  though  if  I  had 
any  pride  I  should  have  forgotten  you  ages  ago ! 

"  And  another  thing.  Julia  Yeoland  tells  everyone  that 
you  have  gone  under, — of  course  to  justify  herself  for  never 
having  done  anything  for  you.  Your  grandfather,  dear 
man,  would  turn  in  his  coffin  if  he  knew  that  she  says  that 
you  are  dancing  in  short  skirts  in  East  End  '  Halls ',  etc. 
She  is  a  hateful  woman,  and  I  am  so  glad  the  King  can't 
bear  her. 

"  Now,  do  send  me  a  line,  my  dear,  and  say  that  you  will 
come  to  see  me.  I  will  promise  not  to  tell  anyone  where 
you  are  living,  if  you  insist,  though  useless  mystery  is  a  waste 
of  good  material! 

"To-morrow  is  your  birthday,  as  it  was  my  poor  boy's. 
My  love  to  you,  and  best  wishes.  And  do  come  to  see  me, 
for  your  grandfather's  sake. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  ELIZA  WIGHT. 

"  P.  S. — Henny  was  asking  about  you  only  the  other  day. 
Poor  Henny,  you  would  hardly  know  her,  she  has  gone  off 
so.  Their  boy  is  very  delicate  and  she  is  always  worried 
about  him.  He  is  a  darling  little  fellow,  though,  and  a  great 
comfort  to  her." 

Pam  locked  this  letter  away  in  a  tin  despatch-box,  the  key 
of  which  hung  on  her  watch-chain,  and  after  sitting  for  a 
moment  in  troubled  thought,  went  into  the  next  room. 


CHAPTER   II 

BREAKFAST  stood  on  a  table  by  the  fire,  and  in  a  much 
worn  chintz-covered  arm-chair  near  it  an  old  woman  sat 
knitting ;  a  hard-featured  old  woman,  whose  small  button  of 
nearly  white  hair  barefacedly  gave  the  lie  to  the  mahogany- 
coloured  front  that  sat  so  oddly  over  her  shaggy  grey  eye- 
brows. 

Pam,  slim  and  tall  in  her  dark-brown  frock,  bent  and 
kissed  the  wooden  cheek  held  up  to  her,  and  sat  down  to  her 
breakfast. 

"  Good  gracious,  Pilly,"  she  began,  beheading  her  egg 
and  peering  at  it  with  the  close  attention  never  bestowed 
upon  eggs  in  higher  spheres,  "  what's  the  matter?  You  look 
as  cross  as  seven  sticks!  Have  you  forgotten  that  this  is  a 
joyful  occasion?  That  your  beloved  nursling  is  twenty- 
seven  years  old  to-day?" 

"  I  wish  you  many  'appy  returns,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Pam," 
answered  the  old  woman,  lugubriously;  "  and  I'm  glad  that 
you  can  take  things  so  easy." 

Pam  laid  down  her  spoon,  and  leaning  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  clasped  her  hands  under  her  chin  and  gazed  steadily 
at  the  old  woman. 

"  Now,  Pilgrim,"  she  said,  severely,  "  you  are  not  going 
to  spoil  my  birthday  with  one  of  your  grouches.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  be  so  discontented.  You  were 
so  ill,  and  now  you  are  better,  you  hated  No.  27,  and  now 

9 


io  PAM    DECIDES 

we  are  in  this  much  nicer  house,  and  you  like  Mrs.  King- 
dom, and  you  have  the  comfortable  mantle,  with  beads  on  it, 
that  you  wanted.  So  please  buck  up  and  be  your  own  dear, 
pleasant  self,  for  my  birthday." 

Pilgrim's  eyes  filled  with  the  scarce,  painful  tears  of  old 
age.  "  As  if  it  was  that,"  she  protested,  with  a  sniff.  "  As 
if  it  was  about  me!  And  as  if  I  could  help  it!  I'm  just  a 
cross-grained  old  woman,  a  cucumberer  of  the  earth,  and  an 
expense  to  you.  And  to  see  you  looking  so  ill,  Miss  Pam, 
and  the  silk  on  your  cuffs  all  wore  out,  and  you  a-living  in 
this  'ere  way — it's  that  that  comes  over  me  sometimes  till  I 
can't  stand  it !  " 

"Nonsense!  Perfect  rubbish!  If  I  don't  mind  my 
shabby  clothes  (and  I  don't),  surely  you  ought  to  be  able 
to  bear  them.  And  as  to  my  looking  ill,  you  know  perfectly 
well  that  I'm  never  ill.  Who  has  had  three  bad  illnesses 
in  the  last  nine  years?  You  or  me?  " 

"  You  get  thinner  every  day,"  retorted  Pilgrim,  now 
sobbing  outright ;  "  and  if  your  poor  grandfather  could  see 
you  now,  wouldn't  'e  say  you  look  like  a  monkey! " 

The  girl  raised  her  eyes  and  inspected  herself  in  the  glass 
opposite.  In  the  strong  light  she  looked  older  than  her 
twenty-seven  years,  for  there  were  delicate  lines  about  her 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  her  smooth  cheeks  were  slightly  hollow. 
She  was  thin,  too,  far  too  thin;  her  waist  was  almost  ludi- 
crously slight  under  the  brown  leather  belt,  and  the  cheap 
stuff  of  her  clumsily  made  frock  betrayed  unmercifully  the 
angles  of  her  elbows  and  shoulders.  She  was  a  healthy 
creature  enough,  but  she  had  lived  in  poverty  for  years, 


PAM    DECIDES  n 

and  her  body  had,  as  bodies  will,  adapted  itself  to  its 
circumstances. 

After  a  moment  the  old  servant,  encouraged  by  her  mis- 
tress's  silence,  blew  her  nose  and  wiped  her  eyes.  "  You've 
been  writing  again,  Miss  Pam,"  she  said,  with  a  last  sniff, 
"you've  been  a-working  at  one  of  them  stories,  and  you 
hadn't  ought.  You'll  lose  all  your  looks  if  you  go  on  like 
that." 

Pam  burst  out  laughing,  her  teeth  flashing  white.  "  And 
what  a  boundless  misfortune  that  would  be,  oh,  Pillyl 
Immortal  beauty  like  mine  lost  to  the  world." 

"  Well, — whatever  it  was,  it's  going"  answered  Pilgrim, 
crossly.  "  I'm  very  glad  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacheverel  and  'is 
Lordship  can't  see  you  now." 

"  So  am  I.  Poor  darling  old  G.F.,  how  he'd  hate — 
this,"  glancing  about  the  room.  "  Funny  how  one  can 
get  used  to  things!  I  say,  Pilly,"  she  continued,  picking  a 
substantial  bit  of  coal  from  her  toast,  and  looking  at  it  with 
the  resignation  of  one  accustomed  to  such  culinary  phenom- 
ena, "  guess  whom  I  had  a  letter  from  this  morning?  " 

"  Mr.  Cazalet,  and  Mr.  Ratty,  and  a  bill,  and — another 
letter.  That  girl  brought  'em  in  'ere  'when  she  made  the 
fire.  A  pretty  state  they  must  'ave  been  in,  too,  by  the  time 
you  got  'em !  " 

"Well, — the  letter  was  from  the  Duchess.  It  appears 
that  the  ducal  eye  fell  on  me  the  other  day  on  the  top  of  a 
'bus,  and  so  she  wrote  to  me  care  of  Cazzy,  and  he  for- 
warded it." 

Jane  Pilgrim,  formerly  a  bit  of  drift-wood  on  Life's  high 


12  PAM    DECIDES 

seas,  now  shut  in  a  London  backwater,  dropped  her  knitting 
and  clasped  her  hands  in  her  excitement. 

"  'Er  Grace !     Oh,  Miss  Pam " 

The  girl's  dark  eyes  softened  to  a  look  of  great  tenderness 
as  they  rested  on  the  flushed  face  opposite  her.  As  a  child 
and  very  young  girl  she  had  owned  a  monkey,  to  which  little 
beast's  eyes  she  had  often  been  told  her  own  bore  a  startling 
resemblance,  and  now  as  she  watched  Pilgrim's  pathetic  joy 
over  the  Duchess's  letter,  there  certainly  was  in  the  gaze 
something  of  the  misty  wistfulness  of  the  simian's. 

"  Such  a  nice  letter,  Pilly,  dear, — and  her  love  to  you, — 
and  she  wants  to  see  me." 

Pilgrim's  lips  shook,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not 
speak,  and  then,  when  Pam  had  hastened  to  add,  "  and  I  am 
going,"  the  old  woman  returned,  acidly,  "  I'm  glad  you  'ave 
that  much  sense ! "  Pam,  with  wisdom  born  of  long  expe- 
rience, continued  her  breakfast  in  silence. 

The  sitting-room  was,  in  spite  of  its  shabbiness,  less  appall- 
ingly ugly  than  the  bedroom,  for  there  were  some  books  in  a 
cheap  painted  bookcase  and  on  the  table,  some  growing  plants 
and  a  canary  in  the  windows,  and  clean,  or  comparatively 
clean,  chintz  covers  to  the  chairs  and  the  sofa.  On  the  table 
stood  a  big  double  picture-frame  of  crimson  imitation-leather, 
containing  a  photograph  of  a  handsome  middle-aged  man  in 
a  velvet  coat,  and  a  wonderfully  beautiful  woman  in  evening 
dress.  On  the  wall  over  the  sofa  hung  a  large  picture,  also 
a  photograph,  of  an  old  country-house  surrounded  by  fine 
trees,  and  flanked  on  the  right  by  an  ancient  ruin.  Under 
this  a  fourth  photograph  showed  a  pleasant-faced,  worldly 


PAM    DECIDES  13 

looking  man,  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  fashion  of  1870. 
This  was  the  late  Lord  Yeoland,  of  Monks'  Yeoland,  the 
house  hanging  above  him,  father  of  the  beautiful  woman 
in  the  crimson  frame,  and,  through  her,  Pam's  grandfather. 

Beyond  these  few  things  there  were  no  efforts  at  beautify- 
ing in  the  room,  and  the  depressing  brown  wallpaper  was  fur- 
ther enlivened  only  by  a  chromo  of  Sunrise  on  Mont  Blanc, 
an  engraving  of  Queen  Victoria  holding  the  present  King 
as  a  young  infant  in  her  arms,  and  one  representing  an 
Evangelical  missionary  extending  his  hands  to  the  enthusi- 
astic kisses  of  scantily-attired  heathen  on  some  palm-covered 
Eastern  isle. 

Pam  crunched  her  toast  and  gazed  indulgently  at  her 
surroundings.  "  The  time,"  she  remarked,  presently,  "  ap- 
pears to  have  arrived  for  me  to  mend  that  rug.  You  are 
lugubrious,  my  ancient  retaineress,  as  melancholy  as  that 
unknown  beast,  a  Gib  Cat,  but  I  should  hate  to  lose  you, 
and  you  stumble  every  time  you  cross  the  room,  and  every 
time  you  stumble,  moreover,  you  stretch  the  hole !  " 

"  To  think "  began  the  old  woman,  but  Pam  inter- 
rupted her  ruthlessly.  "  I  also  have  a  letter  from  the  gentle 
Ratty!  Did  I  tell  you?  Sweet  youth,  he  wrote  under 
pressure  from  his  strong  family  feeling." 

"  Mr.  Ratty  is  a  very  pleasant  young  gentleman " 

' '  Pilly,  you  vampire,  you  lie ! ' ' 

Pilgrim  rose.  "  Well,  really,  Miss  Pam !  You  never 
before  said  anything  that  bad  to  me,  and  I  must  say " 

"  It  wasn't  me — / — that  said  it !  It's  a  great  big  sledge- 
hammer of  a  man  who  writes  delicate,  rapier-like  plays— 


H  PAM    DECIDES 

it's  a  paraphrase,  Pilly, — it's  a — joke !  I  only  meant  to  make 
you  laugh.  And  you  know  Ratty  isn't  a  very  pleasant  young 
— anything.  He's  a  great  big,  lumpish,  hulking,  pestiferous 
goose  of  a  youth.  And  you  know  you  used  to  loathe  him, 
'  bef o'  de  wah  ' !  Do  you  remember  the  time  he  put  a  toad 
in  your  bed?  And  how  he  used  to  pounce  on  you  in  the 
passages?  I  know  what  you  want,  you  old  fraud.  You 
want  me  to  marry  him !  Years  ago  you  would  have  stabbed 
me  at  the  very  altar  if  I  had  accepted  him,  but  now,  in  the 
decline  of  my  powers,  in  the  wreck  of  my  beauty,  in  the 
autumn  of  my  youth,  you  think  him  good  enough  for  me! 
Oh,  shame  on  you ! "  the  girl  went  on,  looking,  in  her 
amusement,  much  younger  than  she  had  when  serious ;  "  out 
upon  you,  you  scheming  old  jade!  Besides,  though  I'd  do 
anything  to  oblige  you,  Miss  Pilgrim,  he  tells  me  in  this 
letter  that  he  no  longer  wants  to  marry  me,  so  your  plotting 
is  in  vain,  and  you  must  resign  yourself  to  my  fading  un- 
plucked  on  the  parent  bush." 

Pilgrim  did  not  answer.  Adversity  had  soured  and  em- 
bittered her,  but  her  heart  was  faithful  to  its  last  drop  of 
blood,  and  the  cruellest  pang  that  heart  had  to  bear  was 
the  one  caused  by  what  she  considered  the  failure  in  life 
of  her  beloved  child.  To  her,  as  to  most  people  of  her  class, 
a  husbandless  woman  was  indeed  a  failure  to  be  sneered  at 
by  all  proud  possessors  of  legitimate  tyrants, — idlers,  drunk- 
ards, maltreaters,  though  they  might  be, — and  the  thought 
that  her  idolised  (though  much  tormented)  Pam  would  soon 
have  passed  her  youth  without  being  sought  in  marriage  by 
any  but  the  objectionable  Ratty  Maxse  and  one  other  hurt 


PAM    DECIDES  15 

the  old  woman  in  a  way  the  girl  was  far  from  realising.  So 
in  silence  Pam  finished  her  breakfast,  set  the  tray  on  the 
floor  outside  the  door,  and  then  taking  a  big  needle  and 
stout  thread  sat  down  by  the  fire  and,  dragging  the  rug  over 
her  knees,  began  to  mend  the  hole  in  a  rather  boggling  but 
efficient  enough  fashion. 

"  How  did  you  sleep,  Pilly  ?  "  she  asked,  presently  drawing 
the  thread  through  the  heavy  carpet  with  a  grating  noise. 

"  Bad,  Miss  Pam,  thank  you ;  them  pains  gets  worse  and 
worse." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  don't.  If  they  had  got  worse  you'd  have 
been  dead  long  ago.  They  are  getting  better  and  better,  as 
the  doctor  will  convince  you  when  he  comes.  Poor,  young 
man,  he  seems  to  come  oftener  than  he  need,"  she  continued, 
with  a  sly  face ;  "it  is  very  evil  of  you  to  lead  him  on  in  this 
way!  But  I'm  going  to  pay  him  to-day,  for  you  really  don't 
need  him  any  longer.  You  are  going  out  for  a  walk  to-mor- 
row, too." 

Pilgrim  sniffed.  She  had  enjoyed  the  excitement  of  her 
recent  illness,  and  Pam's  concentrated  attention  had  delighted 
and  flattered  her  vanity.  And  now  she  resented  the  cutting 
short  of  her  convalescence.  "  I'm  quite  sure  I  shan't  be  able 
to  walk  for  another  week.  My  knees  are  that  weak, — what 
if  I  fainted  in  the  street  ?  " 

Pam  cut  her  thread  and  eyed  her  darn  critically.  "  We 
ought  to  have  a  garden-roller  to  flatten  down  that  bump," 
she  observed ;  "  you  used  to  fall  into  the  hole,  now  you'll 
stumble  against  the  hummock.  However — "  she  went  on, 
rising  and  putting  away  her  thimble  and  needle,  "  you  won't 


1 6  PAM   DECIDES 

faint,  and  if  you  did,  Mildred  could  carry  you  upstairs  quite 
easily." 

Pilgrim  shuddered  fastidiously,  and  before  she  could 
answer,  the  doctor  came  in. 

This  gentleman  was  a  curly-haired  youth,  with  a  round 
face  sprinkled  with  a  richness  of  rural-looking  freckles.  He 
had  a  reddish  moustache,  small  milky  teeth  and  an  innocent 
and  boyish  smile. 

He  had  left  the  sheltering  wing  of  Bart's  only  a  few 
months  before,  and  was  leading  a  jocund  life  with  other 
medical  youths  and  terpsichorean  fays  from  eight  at  night 
until  three  in  the  morning,  and  then,  after  four  hours'  dream- 
less slumber,  arose  and  pursued,  as  he  put  it,  the  profitable 
patient  until  the  hour  of  release  again  sounded.  On  the 
whole  an  honest,  kindly,  conscientious  young  medico,  with, 
under  a  stratum  of  enthusiastic  frivolity,  the  budding  germ 
of  devotion  to  his  profession  and  pity  for  suffering  humanity. 

Pam  liked  Dr.  Anglin,  who  was  a  year  younger  than  her- 
self, and  as  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  because  no  other  gen- 
tleman had  came  her  way  for  years,  had  enjoyed  her  frequent 
talks  with  him  during  Pilgrim's  illness. 

And  she  was  sorry,  now,  to  have  to  ask  him  not  to  come 
again.  When  he  had,  a  curious,  shadow-like  gravity  settling 
down  on  his  young  face  while  he  did  so,  examined  his  pa- 
tient, and  pronounced  her  to  be  progressing  to  his  entire 
satisfaction,  Pam  sent  Pilgrim  out  of  the  room. 

"  I  must  thank  you  for  being  so  kind  to  my  poor  old 
nurse,"  she  said,  "  and  will  you  please  send  me  your  bill?  I 
think  there  is  no  longer  any  necessity  for  your  coming,—' 


PAM    DECIDES  17 

Hon't  you  ?  If  she  should  have  a  relapse,  I  could  always  send 
for  you, " 

He  nodded,  his  blue  eyes  solemn.  "  Yes.  I — I  hope  you 
don't  think  I  have  come  too  often,  Miss  Yeoland  ?  " , 

She  hastened  to  convince  him  that  she  did  not  think  this, 
and  then  shook  hands  with  him. 

"  You — you  aren't  looking  up  to  much  yourself,"  he  com- 
mented, ingenuously.  "  I'm  not  trying  to  drum  up  another 
patient,  you  know,  but  you  are  very  pale." 

She  laughed,  and  liked  him  so  much  that  she  would  have 
enjoyed  stroking  his  unmanageable,  ruddy  curls. 

"  I  have  been  in  the  house  too  much,  of  late,  that's  all ; 
I  have  never  been  ill  in  my  life." 

He  went  away,  thinking  with  delight  of  the  money  she 
was  to  send  him,  and  of  a  supper  to  which  he  was  going  that 
night,  and  of  a  certain  votary  of  Terpsichore.  Pam  had 
grown  really  fond  of  the  friendly  boy  with  his  little  affec- 
tations of  wisdom — and  his  conscientious  care  for  the  in- 
valid, but  he  had  not  given  her  a  thought,  because  he  had 
considered  her  plain  and  passe,  and  rather  like  his  eldest 
sister. 

When  he  had  gone,  Pam  went  and  told  Pilgrim,  whom 
she  found  inspecting  the  grey-looking  linen  just  brought 
from  the  wash,  that  she  was  going  out. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  the  Duchess,  Pilly.  She  is  so  very  kind, 
and  she  was  a  very  old  friend  of  my  grandfather's.  You 
are  glad,  aren't  you?  I  suppose  I'd  better  put  on  my  new 
hat  and  dazzle  her?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Miss  Pam.    You  owe  respect  and — obedience 


i8  PAM   DECIDES 

to  'er  Grace.  I'm  sure  'is  Lordship  would  have  wanted  you 
to  do  whatever  she  says." 

"Not  he,"  laughed  Pam,  pinning  on  the  new  hat,  an 
eight-and-sixpenny  confection  from  the  Tottenham  Court 
Road ;  "  they  used  to  fight  like  anything.  Do  I  look  nice, 
Pilly?" 

Pilly  surveyed  her  critically.  "  Yes,  Miss  Pam,  very  nice. 
And  if  you  keep  your  arm  down  she'll  never  see  the  patch." 
Kissing  her  good-bye,  Pam  left  the  roorr,  and  feeling  her 
way  to  the  stair-head,  plunged  into  the  narrow  abyss  with 
the  recklessness  born  of  long  habit. 

-The  sun  was  trying  to  come  out,  and  the  thick  yellow  fog 
which  had  long  since  disappeared  from  the  upper  windows 
of  the  houses  in  Huntley  Street  was  now  clearing  reluctantly 
from  the  street  itself,  whirling  in  big  curves  back  from  the 
slippery  and  gleaming  pavement  against  the  dingy  houses, 
whence  it  slowly  ebbed  away  into  nothingness.  Turning 
into  Guilford  Street,  Pam  made  her  way  to  Russell  Square, 
whence,  striking  off  to  her  left,  she  passed  along  Montague 
Place,  past  the  back  of  the  Museum,  up  Great  Russell 
Street,  Charing  Cross  Road,  and  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  to 
Piccadilly. 


CHAPTER   III 

PAM  was  a  human  greyhound,  if  she  was  a  dog  at  all,  and 
surely  all  of  us  have  doggish  affinities.  She  loved  walk- 
ing, and  her  years  of  poverty  had  taught  her  how  to  walk. 

Her  short  skirts  safe  from  the  mud,  her  small  feet  in 
stout  shoes,  the  very  hat  on  her  head,  were  all  adapted  to 
pedestrianism  and  helped  to  make  her  advance  along  the 
crowded  ways  the  easy  progress  it  was.  Slim,  alert,  graceful 
and  gracious  she  sped  westward,  jostling  no  one,  accepting 
the  jostlings  of  others  with  good  humour,  avoiding  with  skill 
the  small  accidents  that  beset  less  knowing  wayfarers,  cross- 
ing crowded  streets  fearlessly  and  with  daring  good  judgment. 

She  was  happy  that  morning;  Pilgrim  was  pronounced  to 
be,  humanly  speaking,  out  of  danger;  when  she  went  home 
her  room  would  be  sweet  with  the  scent  of  Monks'  Yeoland 
flowers,  her  new  story  was  progressing  and  she  was  to  have 
ten  pounds  for  it,  she  would,  now  that  Pilgrim  no  longer 
needed  her,  have  time  again  for  long  walks,  the  sun  had 
actually  come  out  and  the  sky  was  blue,  and  she  was  going 
to  see  the  Duchess.  At  last  she  reached  Berkeley  Square 
and  stood  looking  up  at  the  lace-hung  windows  that  brought 
out  in  such  startling  relief  the  blackness  of  the  walls. 

"  Every  bit  as  dingy  as  my  palazzo,"  she  told  herself,  as 
she  rang. 

But  if  the  outside  of  the  house  was  shabby,  inside  every- 
thing was  deeply,  softly  luxurious,  from  the  mossy  carpets, 

19 


20  PAM    DECIDES 

such  as  the  girl  had  not  set  foot  to  for  years,  to  the  mellow 
glow  of  the  electric  lights. 

Yes,  Her  Grace  was  at  home,  and  after  a  short  wait  in  a 
small  room  filled  with  beautiful  things,  chiefly,  it  seemed  to 
the  girl's  unaccustomed  eyes,  of  silver  and  crystal  and  grow- 
ing plants,  she  was  ushered  up  the  wide  stairs  past  a  huge 
clock  that  chimed  at  her  as  she  passed  it,  into  Her  Grace's 
morning-room. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  Duchess  came  in,  she 
found  her  visitor  standing  in  a  well-remembered  attitude 
before  a  life-sized  portrait  of  a  pleasantly  cynical-looking 
old  gentleman,  who  smiled  down  at  her  with  the  slightly 
hunched  shoulders  and  the  hands  clasped  behind  his  back 
that,  reproduced  in  the  girl  looking  back  at  him,  was  so 
characteristic  of  them  both. 

"Pam!" 

Pam  wheeled  round  with  wet  eyes,  and  the  Duchess 
rushed  at  her  and  embraced  her.  "  Oh,  my  dear  child,  to 
see  you  standing  there  by  him, — so  absurdly  like  him,  though 
he  was  so  fair,  and  you  are  so  dark !  I  wonder  that  you  dare 
to  face  him,  after  the  way  you  have  behaved  since  he — • 
went!" 

Pam  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  tip  of  a  gloved  finger  and 
then  felt  for  her  handkerchief.  "  I  know  he  wouldn't  have 
bullied  me,"  she  returned,  bursting  into  a  smile,  "  and  I  am 
so  glad  to  see  you."  And  they  sat  down  on  a  perilously 
fragile-looking  sofa  that  bore  the  old  lady's  weight  with  sur- 
prising fortitude. 

"  But  tell  me, — where  are  you  living  ?  " 


PAM    DECIDES  21 

"  In  a  cave  1  dug  under  the  Mansion  House.  We  live 
on  nuts  and  bananas  thrown  to  us  by  benevolent  Italians — • 
No,  really,  you  needn't  worry!  We  live  in  highly  respect- 
able lodgings,  and  I  am  an  admirable  chaperon  for  Pilgrim. 
And  we  lead  the  most  virtuous  and  harmless  of  lives,  and 
have  marmalade  for  breakfast  on  Sundays " 

"  But  where  is  it?  Now  that  I've  got  you,  I'm  not  going 
to  lose  you,"  persisted  the  Duchess. 

Pam  kissed  her.  "  Please  don't  tease  me!  If  you  do,  I'll 
be  sorry  I  came,  and  it  is  such  a  nice  birthday-party  to  see 
you.  And  I  do  so  like  this  colour  for  your  hair." 

"  Do  you,  you  villain!  Good  heavens,  Pam,  you  said 
that  so  like  Oswald!  Well,  yes,  it's  a  nice,  quiet  colour, 
isn't  it?  A  man  in  Wigmore  Street  does  it, — such  a  beauti- 
ful street  for  a  modern  hair-dresser  to  live  in,  I  always  think 
Well, — have  you  really  enough  money  to  live  comfortably?'" 

"  Plenty.  And  you  know  I  had  some  jewels,  too.  I  have 
sold  two  rings,  and  have  one  left." 

"Rings?     Not  from  your  grandfather,  were  they?" 

"  No.    They  were  left  me  by  Madame  Ravoglit* 

"  The  actress?  Dear  me,  I  saw  her  twice.  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber Oswald's  telling  me  that  you  had  known  her  when  you 
were — with  your  father  and  mother.  I  am  glad  to  know 
you  had  the  rings.  Oh,  you  little  brute,"  continued  the  old 
lady,  patting  Pam's  hands  with  her  cushiony  one,  "  you 
might  have  told  me  long  ago.  I  owe  many  a  sleepless  night 
to  your  obstinacy  about  that  little  sum  of  money  I  wanted  to 
give  you." 

"  Dear  Duchess,  I  couldn't !     I  really  couldn't." 


22  PAM    DECIDES 

"  And  your  grandfather  and  I  were  punished  with  the 
same  birch  when  we  were  children  and  would  probably  have 
married  when  I  was  eighteen  and  he  twenty,  if  I  had  not 
been  so  poor.  Though,  to  be  sure,"  she  added,  with  the 
quaint  frankness  of  which  the  incidents  of  a  long  and  varied 
life  had  never  robbed  her,  "  I  don't  think  he  ever  was  a  bit 
in  love  with  me.  He  just  thought  he  was,  you  know,  as 
boys  so  often  do.  You  ought  to  have  had  the  generosity  to 
have  let  me  know  where  you  were,  at  least,  even  if  you 
wouldn't  let  me  help  you.  However, — it  was  perfectly  in 
character,  your  disappearing  like  that.  How's  Caliban  ?  " 

"  Dead.  He  only  lived  a  year  aftei  we  came  to  London, 
poor  Cally!" 

"  And — what  do  you  do?    Do  you  slumt 

Pam  laughed.  "  Oh,  dear,  no.  I  just  live  along  from 
day  to  day.  Oh, — if  you  will  swear  not  to  tell  I'll  tell  you 
a  secret." 

"I  swear!" 

"  Well, — I  write.  I  have  written  twenty-two  novels  in 
the  last  six  years!" 

"  Twenty-two " 

"Novels.    Yes." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  giving  me  some  money  ? 
My  luck  at  Bridge  is  infamous.  But  seriously,  child,  what 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

Pam  laughed.  "  I  mean  just  that.  I  really  have  written 
twenty-two  novels,  and  they  come  out  in  a  sky-blue  periodical 
called — but  that  I  shan't  tell.  And  they  are  eagerly  read 
by  a  large  circle  of  admirers!  I  get  letters  about  them. 


PAM    DECIDES  23 

And  now,"  she  continuedj  peremptorily,  "  tell  me  about 
yourself." 

"  Oh,  there's  little  to  tell  about  me.  I  am  very  well, — 
all  but  my  eyes,  which  trouble  me  a  good  deal.  I  am  grow- 
ing old,  my  dear." 

"  And — Lady  Henrietta,"  Pam  went  on,  with  an  effort, 
"and— Mr.  Peele?" 

The  old  lady  sighed.  "  Poor  Henny,  she  has  lost  her 
looks.  I  always  told  her  she  would, — it  was  chiefly  colour, 
you  know.  And  Manny,  her  boy,  is  very  delicate, — a  wee 
weak  thing.  She  is  in  a  constant  state  of  anxiety  about  him. 
As  to  James, — oh,  well,  James  is  James,  and  no  more  need 
be  said ;  you  know  what  that  means.  I  never  wanted  her  to 
marry  him,  you  may  remember,  and  I  never  thought  that  he 
really  cared  for  her,  but  she  would  have  him,  and  I  must  say 
she  never  complains." 

"  But, — surely  he  is  not  bad  to  her?  " 

The  Duchess  laughed.  "  Oh,  dear,  no !  He  is  on  the 
contrary  much  blander  and  easier  to  get  on  with  than  he 
used  to  be.  He  is  most  agreeable,  even.  Only, — well,  you 
know  Henny  comes  of  a  race  of  political  fighters,  and  she 
was  more  disappointed  than  anyone  but  me  even  suspected 
when  he  gave  up  all  his  ambitions  and  settled  comfortably 
down  as  a  rich  woman's  husband." 

Pam  flushed,  a  little  angrily.  "  He  never  would  have 
done  that  if  his  health  had  not  given  way,"  she  protested. 
"  I  read  about  it  in  the  papers  at  the  time,  and  I  was  dread- 
fully sorry  for  him.  It — must  have  nearly  killed  him !  He 
was  the  most  ambitious  man  I  ever  knew,  and  I  am  sure " 


24  PAM   DECIDES 

"  My  dear  child,  this  is  a  new  role  for  you!  You  nevet 
liked  him,  as  I  perfectly  well  remember." 

"That  needn't  prevent  my  trying  to  be  just,  need  it? 
You  see,  I  knew  him  that  time  in — Derbyshire,  when  he 
was  ill  the  first  time,  and — he  used  nearly  to  despair " 

The  old  lady  nodded. 

"  Well,  well,  of  course  you  are  right,  and  it  was  hard  on 
him,  but — his  health  has  been  quite  excellent  for  the  past  five 
years,  but  he  has  made  no  effort  to  make  UD  for  lost 
time." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  murmured  Pam,  absently,  "  a  lost  ambi- 
tion seems  a  pitiful  kind  of  thing, — he  should  have  been 
fighting," — she  half  closed  her  eyes  and  seemed  to  be  men- 
tally watching  the  foregone  battles  in  question,  her  face 
Intent  and  eager.  "  However, — a  weak  heart  is  a  terrible 
handicap.  Now  tell  me  about  Lady  Yeoland.  Why  is  she 
lying  about  me?  " 

The  Duchess  laughed.  "  Because  she's  ashamed  of  having 
treated  you  as  she  did." 

"  Well,  but  that  was  nine  years  ago!  " 

"  I  know.  It  was  at  Evelyn  Chesney's, — I  dined  there 
the  other  night,  and  the  Pocklingtons  were  there.  We  were 
talking  about  old  times,  and  he  suddenly  asked,  quite  audibly, 
what  had  become  of  you.  I  didn't  answer,  just  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Julia  wriggle,  and — she  wriggled." 

"  I  saw  Evelyn  about  a  year  ago,  and  I  have  always 
sent  her  a  Christmas  card,  to  say  that  all  was  well  with 
me, " 

"  Evelyn  was  talking  to  her  latest  admirer  and  didn't 


PAM    DECIDES  25 

hear,  and  then  Sir  Henry  turned  to  Julia  and  asked  her 
outright  where  you  were." 

"Poor  Julia!" 

"Yes.  She  didn't  exactly  cover  herself  with  glory,  I 
must  say.  She  stammered  out  that  she  really  knew  nothing 
about  you,  that  you  had  behaved  very  queerly  at  the  time 
of  Oswald's  death,  etc.  Then  he  said  he  had  been  so  fond 
of  you,  and  that  as  Oswald  had  loved  you  more  than  anyone 
and  had  fully  intended  making  some  provision  for  you,  of 
course  Fred  Yeoland  had  done  so.  At  that  I  explained  with 
a  sweet  smile  that  nothing  had  been  done  for  you,  and  that 
you  had  refused  to  let  even  me  help  you." 

"  Oh,  you  dear,"  murmured  the  girl. 

"And  at  that  the  creature  lost  her  head  and  came  out 
with  the  stupid  lie  that  she  could  not  look  you  up  as  she 
would  have  wished  to,  because  she  had  heard  that  you  were 
singing  or  dancing  at  the  Halls!  The  Fat  Boy,  who  was 
there,  denied  this  loudly,  and  of  course  I  did  too,  but  hav- 
ing hatched  her  story  she'll  take  good  care  to  keep  it  going, 
you  may  be  sure." 

"  She  always  was  a  cat ;  not  that  I  knew  her,  but  my 
G.F.  never  could  bear  her.  She  refused  to  know  me,  you 
know, — but  didn't  Evelyn  speak  up  ?  " 

The  Duchess  hesitated. 

"Yes, — but  not  forcefully.  She  didn't  say  that  she  had 
heard  from  you." 

"Then  she  lied  just  as  much  as  Lady  Yeoland.  And  I 
must  say  I  prefer  a  nice  courageous,  outspoken  lie  to  an 
unsaid  one.  However,  Evelyn  of  course  likes  being  on 


26  PAM    DECIDES 

good  terms  with  the  Yeolands,  and  she  always  was  a  coward. 
Ratty  was  always  odious,  but  he  had  more  pluck  than  she." 

As  she  finished  speaking  the  clock  on  the  stairs  chimed 
the  hour.  It  was  one  o'clock.  Pam  started  up.  "Oh, 
I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  I  must  be  off,  or  Pilgrim  will 
be  frightened." 

"  But  you  will  stay  to  lunch,  surely!  I  have  two  such 
nice  people  coming, — Marietta  Wynn,  the  one  who  whistles 
so  beautifully,  and  Evelyn's  admirer,  one  of  the  Russian 
secretaries,  quite  the  most  delightful  man  in  town." 

"  I  can't  stay,  dear  Duchess." 

"But  you  are  not  going  to  disappear  again?  Pam, — I 
am  old,  and  lonely,  and  I  always  loved  you." 

There  was  regret,  and  something  like  pity  in  the  girl's 
face  as  she  bent  and  kissed  the  youthfully  blooming,  delicately 
scented  cheek  of  the  old  woman,  but  there  was  no  hesitation. 

"  I  must  disappear,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go  back  to  my 
cave.  You  see  cave-dwellers  can't  stand  the  broad  light  of 
the  surface-world.  It  dazzles  their  eyes  and  shows  the 
patches  on  their  clothes." 

"Pam!" 

"  Yes.  And  I  am  poor,  you  know,  quite  ridiculously  poor£ 
and  I  can't  live  with  rich  people.  You  must  let  me  go." 

"  But, — will  you  come  to  me  for  a  visit,  then, — say  only 
for  a  week?  Then  I'll  promise  to  let  you  go, — I  will  put 
up  Pilly,  and  you  can  do  just  as  you  like, " 

The  too-red  lips  of  the  kind  old  woman  were  trembling, 
and  Pam  took  her  hands  gently  in  her  own. 

"  Dear  Duchess,  listen  what  R.K.  says: — 


•"GOOD-BYE,  G.  F.* " 


PAM    DECIDES  27 

"  Cave-Right  is  the  right  of  the  father, 
— to  hunt  by  himself  for  his  own: 
He  is  free  of  -all  calls  to  the  pack, 
He  is  judged  by  the  Council  alone." 

"  But  you  are  not  a  father !  " 

"Yes,  I  am;  I  am  the  father  of  my  own  independent 
thoughts,  and  of  my  own  independent  life,  I  am  poor,  and 
shabby,  and  of  no  account,  but — I  am  freed  by  circum- 
stances, freed  of  all  calls  to  the  pack, — don't  you  see?  So 
you  must  let  me  go.  It  isn't  that  I  don't  love  you  dearly 
for  wanting  me,  or  that  I  don't  love  to  be  with  you, — only 
— I  must  go  back  to  my  cave  in  the  jungle."  The  Duchess 
understood. 

"  Very  well,  my  dear.  As  you  like.  But  come  to  see 
me  sometimes  for  his  sake,  and  I  will  not  torment  you  to 
stay.  I  never  understood  why  you  deserted  us  all,  but  I 
suppose  you  had  reasons,  and  I  see  what  you  mean  about 
your  cave-right." 

Pam  kissed  her  affectionately.  "  Thank  you.  Good-bye." 
Then  she  turned  and  looking  at  the  portrait,  added  gravely, 
"  Good-bye,  G.F." 

And  the  Duchess,  studying  the  living  face  and  the 
pictured  one,  marvelled  again  at  the  likeness  between  them; 
the  whimsical  set  to  the  corners  of  the  mouths,  and  the 
contrasting,  but  by  no  means  contradictory,  almost  tragic 
expression  in  the  deep-set  eyes,  the  one  pair  so  blue,  the 
other  so  dark. 

"  How  like  him  you  are,"  she  commented,  thoughtfully, 
"  and  yet  he  was  a  much  gayer  nature  than  you." 


28  PAM    DECIDES 

"Yes,  he  was  gay,  but  I  too  am  gay — in  the  jungle. 
Your  civilised  magnificence  oppresses  my  savage  spirit, — 
well,  good-bye  again.  And  I  promise  that  if  ever  I  need 
help  of  any  kind  I  will  come  to  you,  and — I  will  come  again 
some  day." 

A  moment  later  she  left  the  house  and  came  out  into 
a  thick  fog  that  had  crept  unseen  by  her  over  its  patient 
victim,  the  city. 

As  she  started  across  the  square  a  caprice  of  the  aerial 
monster  brought  her  suddenly  face  to  face  with  a  man 
who  apparently  had  sprung  at  her  out  of  the  earth.  They 
both  laughed,  and  then  he  raised  his  hat,  showing  her  beauti- 
fully smooth  yellow  hair,  and  said  with  a  curious  distinct- 
ness of  enunciation,  "  I  beg  your  pardon."  Then  the  fog 
closed  down  again,  and  she  was  alone,  the  picture  of  his 
face  remaining  with  her  as  clear  and  distinct  as  his  own 
utterance. 

He  looked,  with  his  delicate  features,  beautiful,  firm-cut 
mouth  and  prominent  chin,  like  someone,  or  some  picture 
she  had  recently  seen.  Who,  or  whose  picture  was  it? 

Then,  as  she  climbed  to  the  top  of  her  'bus,  she  remem- 
bered. Lamartine.  Lamartine  with  a  glass  in  his  eye,  a 
most  beautiful  and  glossy  hat,  a  baroque  pearl  in  his  black 
satin  tie. 


CHAPTER   IV 

ONE  day,  some  four  weeks  after  her  visit  to  the  DuchesSj 
Pam  walked  along  a  broad  street  near  Buckingham  Palace, 
and  pausing  at  the  windows  of  an  attractive-looking  shop> 
stood  studying  the  multifarious  and  strikingly  heterogeneous 
array  of  articles  spread  before  her  on  the  velvet-carpeted 
inclined  plane  behind  the  beautifully  clean  plate-glass. 

There  were  bits  of  old  silver,  delightful  shagreen  boxes, 
several  pairs  of  diamond  earrings,  an  inlaid  ebony  and 
ivory  chest  with  silver  handles,  a  pair  of  field-glasses,  a 
miniature  of  Lady  Hamilton,  poor  woman,  bequeathed  by 
her  and  its  hero  to  the  nation,  only  to  die  in  a  foreign  garret, 
— a  magnificent  gold-embroidered  chasuble,  a  gold-mounted 
dressing-bag,  a  French  doll  attired  with  doubtful  taste  in 
pink  silk  and  yellow  lace,  and  a  pair  of  old  paste  shoebuckles. 

A  very  wonderful  shop-window,  and  a  very  wonderful 
shop.  After  a  leisurely  survey  of  the  treasures  in  the 
window,  Pam  went  in  and  stood  looking  round  her  with 
the  air  of  one  perfectly  at  home  in  a  familiar  though  queer 
place,  until  one  of  the  two  men  behind  the  crowded  counters 
should  be  free  to  wait  upon  her. 

A  smartly  dressed  woman  with  a  dotted  veil  drawn  taut 
over  her  vivid  complexion  had  taken  from  a  travelling-bag 
some  silver  salt-cellars  and  a  big  candelabra  of  the  same 
metal. 

"  What  will  you  give  me  for  these  ? "  she  was  saying, 

29 


30  PAM   DECIDES 

with  an  airy  grace  evidently  aimed  at  the  presumably  sus- 
ceptible heart  of  the  youth  who  was  waiting  on  her.  "  All 
family  things, — my  husband's  family,— and  I  shouldn't 
think  of  giving  them  up,  only  my  flat  is  so  small  that  every 
inch  of  room  is  precious."  Catching  sight  of  Pam  she  re- 
peated more  loudly,  "  Y — yaus, — my  flat  is  so  absurdly 
small,  and  we  are  going  to  the  Riviera  for  the  winter,  this 
weather  is  so  abominable !  " 

The  fashionably  dressed  young  man  listened  unmoved. 
Little  he  recked  whether  the  flat  was  large  or  small,  or 
simply,  as  he  strongly  suspected,  non-existent.  Impassive  as 
the  little  Indian  idol  at  his  elbow,  he  made  his  tests,  weighed 
the  silver,  made  certain  entries  in  a  certain  large  book,  and 
paid  a  certain  sum  to  the  Riviera-bound  lady,  who  cast  it 
carelessly  into  her  purple  velvet  chatelaine-bag  and  sauntered 
absent-mindedly  out  into  the  crisp  December  afternoon. 

Then  the  youth,  whose  superior  was  still  busy  displaying 
a  set  of  ivory  chessmen  to  an  old  man  who  himself  looked, 
Pam  thought,  strikingly  like  one  of  the  yellow-visaged  kings, 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss." 

Pam  nodded  amiably.  "  Good-morning.  Is  Mr.  Corn- 
wall in?  I  want  to  pawn  a  ring." 

Mr.  Cornwall,  when  dragged  from  his  lair  behind  the 
shop,  proved  to  be  an  elegantly-attired,  middle-aged  man 
whose  hair  was  sweet  and  glossy  with  precious  ointments, 
and  whose  nails  though  not  quite  clean,  showed  unmistake- 
able  signs  of  having  been  submitted  no  later  than  yesterday 
to  the  manicure's  gentle  arts.  And  his  nose  turned  up  as 


PAM    DECIDES  31 

if  declaring  almost  blatantly  the  Christianity  of  his  origin. 
Pam  had  known  this  gentleman  for  several  years,  and  from 
the  first  moment  of  their  acquaintance  had  been  deeply  sure 
that  not  for  the  most  beautifully  Greek  feature  in  the  world 
would  he  have  exchanged  his  so  obviously  unhebraic  nose. 

"  Good-morning, — ah,  Miss  Yeoland !  I — I  was  sorry 
you  could  not  redeem  the  emerald,"  he  began,  as  he  recog- 
nised her,  "  an  American  lady  bought  it;  it  was  a  pity." 

"Yes,  I  was  sorry, — but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  have  a 
ruby  for  you  this  morning,  Mr.  Cornwall." 

Stripping  off  her  glove  she  gave  him  the  ring.  Then  she 
listened,  as  did  the  two  now  unoccupied  young  men,  for  the 
sound  of  approval. 

It  came,  this  sound  of  approval,  but  not  from  Mr.  Corn- 
wall's mouth,  as  might  have  been  expected  by  any  uninitiated 
onlooker.  It  came  from  his  nose,  for  when  this  Christian 
was  pleased  with  an  object,  he  snored  at  it. 

And  now  Mr.  Cornwall  snored  loudly  at  the  ring  once 
given  to  a  great  actress  by  a  man  who  loved  her,  and  the 
snore  was  the  nearest  approach  to  a  purr  that  Pam  had  ever 
heard  from  a  human  being. 

"  This  is  a  very  fine  ruby,"  began  the  Christian  Grimalkin 
with  a  certain  air  of  discriminating  benevolence  peculiar  to 
him,  "  a  very  fine  ruby,  indeed." 

"Yes,"  returned  Pam,  "I  want  sixty  pounds  on  it."  If 
it  had  been  her  first  visit  to  the  place,  she  would  have  said 
"  for  it." 

Grimalkin  purred  again.  Then  he  mewed  out  that  sixty 
pounds  was  a  very  large,  a  very  large  sum  of  money. 


32  PAM   DECIDES 

"  And  I  want  large  sums,"  returned  the  girl,  coolly.  As 
she  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  someone  came  in,  but  she 
went  on  without  looking  round,  "  Come,  Mr.  Cornwall, 
you  know  it's  worth  the  money.  At  fifteen  per  cent,  for 
two  years.  I — I  shall  try  very  hard  to  redeem  this  one, 

but  if  I  am  not  able  to "  She  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders 

with  the  inborn  philosophy  that  had  stood  her  so  often  in 
such  good  stead. 

Then  while  Cornwall,  snoring  and  mewing  alternately, 
as  the  beauty  of  the  ruby  or  the  enormous  value  of  the  £60 
dominated  his  mind  by  turn,  produced  his  large  book  and 
filled  in  the  certificate,  Pam  studied  the  countless  little 
knickknacks  in  the  glass  case  before  her. 

Times  had  been  very  hard  of  late,  for  the  doctor's  bill 
had  had  to  be  paid,  and  the  chemist's,  and  shoes  and  a  dress 
for  Pilgrim,  as  well  as  odds  and  ends  of  tempting  food  to 
help  on  the  poor  woman's  delicate  appetite.  Christmas 
usually  brought  a  cheque  from  Japan,  but  this  year  Sachev- 
erel  had  sent  his  dear  daughter,  instead,  a  beautiful  pale-blue 
kimono  embroidered  all  over  with  redlegged  storks  and 
lotus-flowers.  Over  this  magnificent  but  bitterly  disappoint- 
ing gift  the  girl  had  all  but  wept,  and  to  rectify  matters  had 
been  forced  to  part  with  the  one  ring  she  had  hoped  always 
to  keep. 

At  length  Grimalkin  opened  a  drawer  and  counted  out 
sixty  beautiful  golden  sovereigns,  and  Pam  dropped  the 
warm  money  into  her  cold  and  hungry  little  purse.  "  Now 

will  you  just  sign  here? "  While  the  girl  filled  out  the 

blank  she  listened  while  the  newcomer  to  the  shop  talked 


PAM    DECIDES  33 

to  one  of  the  shopmen  about  a  shagreen  case  he  was 
examining. 

"  Thirty-five  shillings?  It  is  a  most  excellent  box,  but — 
very  small." 

"  It's  a  real  antique,"  responded  the  youth,  and  the 
would-be  buyer  laughed, — a  quiet,  well-bred,  amused  laugh. 

"  I  know  that  quite  well,"  he  answered. 

Then,  as  Cornwall  tore  from  the  book  and  gave  to  Pam 
her  half  of  their  contract,  the  girl  turned  to  look  at  the  man 
whose  voice  was  so  pleasant.  It  was  Lamartine!  The  man 
she  had  met  in  the  fog  on  leaving  the  Duchess's  that  day. 

Lamartine  splendid  in  clothes  straight  from  Savile  Row, 
the  most  beautiful  of  top  hats,  the  slimmest  and  glossiest  of 
boots,  the  newest  and  most  exquisitely  cut  of  gloves. 

His  faintly-marked  eyebrow  pounced  down  on  his  glass 
as  he  recognised  her,  and  he  stared  hard,  but  quite  inoffen- 
sively as  he  made  way  for  her  to  pass,  and  held  the  door 
open  until  she  had  disappeared  round  the  corner,  wondering 
how  it  was  that  such  flagrant  dandyism  was  not  disagreeable ; 
how  it  was  that  his  small,  delicate  face  so  utterly  dominated 
the  rest  of  him  that  even  now,  with  the  impression  of  his 
perfection  of  attire  so  fresh  in  her  mind,  she  could  not 
remember  the  colour  of  his  trousers  or  the  kind  of  flower  he 
wore  in  his  coat. 

It  was  his  face  that  she  remembered;  the  large,  light- 
^reen  eyes,  so  beautifully  cut,  so  luminous,  so  almost  brow- 
less  and  lashless;  the  serenity  of  his  broad  brow,  the  bland 
beauty  of  his  beardless  mouth. 

It  was  a  face  to  be  remembered,  and  she  remembered  it 


34  PAM    DECIDES 

with  the  most  amazing  distinctness,  but  in  the  meantime 
£60  sang  in  her  pocket;  sang  of  new  stays  for  Pilly;  of  a 
dozen  oranges  for  the  same  dear  person;  of  new  gloves  and 
new  stockings  for  herself;  of  a  hat  with  a  feather  for  Mil- 
dred the  slavey;  besides  the  deep-noted  hymn-of-thanksgiving 
for  solid  pounds  in  Filly's  double-locked  keeping. 

So  Lamartine  faded  away  into  that  limbo  of  memory 
where  haphazard  impressions  store  themselves  until  they 
are  wanted  in  the  foreground. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  a  letter  from  Japan, 
and  sitting  by  the  fire,  after  the  transfer  of  fifty  of  the  sixty 
pounds  to  the  old  woman,  she  opened  it. 

"  My  dear  Parri,"  she  read,  in  the  neat,  artistic  hand  she 
had  as  a  child  tried,  and  for  inner  reasons,  failed,  in  trying 
to  copy,  "I  hope  the  kimono  reached  you  all  right?  I 
thought  it  would  please  you  instead  of  the  eternal  ten 
pounds,  and  as  I  chose  it  myself,  I  hope  it  suits  you?  I 
was  sorry  to  hear  that  you  still  persist  in  living  apart  from 
all  your  old  friends,  but  of  course  you  know  best,  and  of 
course,  comparatively  poor  as  you  are,  it  would  be  hard 
for  you  to  live  with  rich  people. 

"  Your  grandfather,  when  he  wrote  your  mother  of  his 
intention  to  provide  for  you,  mentioned  the  above  reason 
as  his  for  putting  you  down  in  his  will.  I  have  always 
thought  the  sum  must  have  been  an  unnecessarily  small  one, 
as  you  have  never  mentioned  it  in  your  letters,  but  I  am 
grateful  to  him  for  leaving  you  anything,  for  more  than 
one  reason,  for  it  would,  as  you  know,  have  come  hard  on 


PAM    DECIDES  35 

me  to  have  to  give  you  an  allowance,  after  my  incredibly 
asinine  performances  that  autumn  on  the  Bourse,  just  before 
we  sailed. 

"  So  let  us  be  thankful,  cara  figliuola  mia,  that  you  have 
enough  to  live  comfortably,  and  no  doubt  you  enjoy  life 
quite  as  much,  and  have  made  quite  as  pleasant  friends  as 
if  you  had  clung  to  the  Duchess  and  the  Fred  Yeolands. 

"News  I  have  none.  Your  mother  is  amazing.  When 
I  look  at  her  I  cannot  believe  my  own  absolute  knowledge 
that  she  is  nearly  fifty  years  old.  I  am  having  her  portrait 
done  by  a  little  Italian  out  here  for  his  health,  and  it  will 
not  surprise  you  to  hear  that  he  has  fallen  madly  in  love 
with  her.  It  amuses  us  both,  but  she  is  so  exquisite  that  I 
quite  understand  and  pity  the  poor  wretch. 

"By  the  way,  Burke  has  been  with  us!  Poor  old  chap, 
I  pitied  him,  too, — he  is  lonely  and  half-ill,  and  bored  by 
everything.  He  was  here  a  month,  and  I  was  very  glad 
to  see  him  again.  He  told  us  about  his  first  meeting  with 
you,  at  Aix.  What  an  imp  you  were,  little  daughter ! 

"  He  enquired  about  you,  of  course,  but  he  did  not  ask 
for  your  address,  though  he  was  going  to  London,  via  New 
York,  on  business.  He  told  me  of  his  promise  not  to 
'  bother '  you.  Sometimes  I  wish  you  had  married  him, 
Pam.  In  spite  of  what  you  say,  I  fear  you  must  often  be 
lonely,  and  he  would  have  been  very  good  to  you.  However, 
no  doubt  you  know  best,  as  I  always  gave  you  credit  for 
doing. 

"  And  here  you  are  twenty-eight  years  old  and  still  un- 
married! I  should  have  thought  my  daughter  and  hers 


36  PAM   DECIDES 

would  have  had  humanity  enough  to  love  some  mart  by  this 
time.  Have  you  not?  Perhaps  you  used  to  be  a  deer,  ages 
ago,  and  once  Diana  chased  and  caught  you,  and  then  with 
a  long  look  into  your  big  eyes  set  you  free  but  kept  your 
spirit  captive  forever? 

"  It  is  late  at  night,  my  dear,  so  forgive  your  old  father 
his  little  rhapsody.  Your  mother  sends  you  her  fondest 
love,  and  so  do  I.  Some  day  you  must  come  out  and  visit 
us.  Japan  is  the  only  country  left  to  the  lover  of  the' 
beautiful.  I  hope  poor  old  Pilly  is  quite  well  ?  Many  kind 
messages  from  us  both,  and  to  you  my  love. 
"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"Guv  SACHEVEREL." 

For  a  long  time  the  girl  sat  musing  over  this  extremely 
characteristic  communication.  Its  key-note  "  you  know 
best "  had  always  been  that  of  her  father's  attitude  towards 
her.  At  ten  years  old  he  had  assumed  that  she  knew  best, 
and  had  allowed  her  to  go  her  own  way.  And  in  his  turn, 
he  and  her  beautiful  mother  had  gone  their  way  under  their 
perennial  honeymoon  so  entranced  by  its  golden  light  that 
they  almost  forgot  the  child  in  the  shadow. 

And  the  child  had  grown  to  girlhood  and  to  woman- 
hood, always  "  kmnving  best,"  making  up  her  innocent  mind 
«?n  all  sorts  of  less  innocent  matters,  following  her  instinct, 
drawing  on  her  small  stock  of  experience  for  guidance,  run- 
ning into  horrible  danger,  suffering,  blundering,  and  then 
escaping  the  danger  at  the  cost  of  infinite  disillusionment 
and  pain,  only  by  reason  of  a  certain  purity  of  heart  that 


PAM    DECIDES  37 

by  some  merciful  dispensation  had  survived  the  appalling 
perils  it  had  run. 

And  at  this  crucial  time  the  Honey-mooners  had  lightly 
sailed  away  in  a  friend's  yacht  to  see  Japan,  and  when  old 
Lord  Yeoland  was  found  to  have  neglected  adding  to  his 
will  the  codicil  that  would  have  provided  for  Pam,  the 
girl  had  never  told  her  parents,  and  liking  Japan  they  had 
stayed  on  in  that  delectable  country,  their  harmony  undis- 
turbed by  one  conscience-prick  about  the  girl  who  knew 
best. 

And  being  now  much  older,  in  ways  that  count,  than 
her  light-hearted  children  of  parents,  the  girl  sat  by  the 
fire  and  smiled  a  tenderly  indulgent  little  smile  over  her 
father's  letter. 

For  she  was  of  strong  fibre,  and  it  had  resisted  the  tests 
to  which  it  had  been  put,  and  they  had  not  hurt  her.  And 
when,  after  her  hour  of  disaster,  her  world  had  stopped 
whirling  over  abysmal  horrors,  a  gift  given  to  her  at  her 
birth  by  a  benevolent  old  fairy  with  a  crooked  smile,  had 
again  resumed  its  temporarily  deadened  powers,  and  gone 
on  developing  until  she  was,  so  to  say,  doubly  armed. 

For  a  sense  of  humour  is  to  a  lonely  citizen  of  the  world 
what  is  to  a  shipwrecked  sailor  on  a  desert  island  the  knife 
with  which  he  hews  the  logs  to  make  his  hut,  and  cuts  the 
fruit  by  which  he  lives.  And,  therefore,  Pam  sat  that 
afternoon  smiling  over  the  affectionate  selfishness  of  her 
father's  letter. 

And  her  thin  face  was  very  pleasant  when  she  smiled  the 
smile  of  the  girl  who  knew  best. 


CHAPTER   V 

DECEMBER  wore  away;  a  mild  saffron  month  moist 
with  thick  misty  rain  and  thin-coated,  slippery  mud. 

As  it  advanced  and  Christmas  crowds  thronged  the  streets, 
it  was  marked  by  increased  difficulties  in  getting  both  in  and 
out  of  the  bun-and-milk  establishments,  greater  danger  in 
crossing  the  streets,  and  augmented  peril  of  death  by  crush- 
ing, in  the  crowded  but  genial  'bus. 

Pam  went  to  a  play  or  two,  sitting  contentedly  in  the 
second  gallery  and  chatting  as  a  friendly  matter  of  course 
with  her  neighbours, — to  the  frosty  indignation  of  Pilgrim 
whose  cup  nearly  overflowed  when  on  one  of  these  occasions 
of  mirth  and  jollity  Pam  was  offered,  and  accepted,  a  pink 
peppermint  lozenge  by  a  young  man  in  checked  clothes  and 
a  beautifully  oiled  fringe. 

Pam  and  Pilgrim  ate  their  Christmas  dinner,  as  they  had 
eaten  so  many,  quite  alone,  and  the  pudding  weighed  several 
pounds  and  gave  the  old  woman  a  violent  indigestion  which 
necessitated  a  sporadic  outbreak  of  visits  from  Dr.  Anglin, 
and  added  to  the  excitement  if  not  to  the  comfort  of  the 
holiday  atmosphere. 

January  came  in  colder  than  December,  but  speedily 
weakened  into  a  muggy  imitation  of  its  predecessor,  and 
while  people  who  are  always  warm  grumbled  over  the 
unseasonable  mildness  of  the  new  month,  Pam,  if  always 
fairly  warm  herself,  lived  too  near  to  those  who  can  be 

38 


PAM    DECIDES  39 

so  only  when  the  air  warms  them,  was  glad  of  the  mildness 
and  watched  the  thermometer  anxiously,  fearing  the  delicious 
invigorating  cold  that  she  loved. 

One  morning  when  there  was  for  a  wonder  no  rain,  and 
a  certain  luminousness  in  the  yellow  air  offered  a  faint  hope 
of  sunshine,  the  girl  decided  to  go  to  the  National  Gallery 
and  spend  an  hour  among  Turner's  water-colours. 

It  is  significant,  perhaps,  of  the  appreciation  of  an  artistic 
nation  of  its  greatest  colourist,  that  never,  in  the  many  morn- 
ings Pam  had  passed  in  these  quiet  rooms,  had  she  met 
anyone  she  knew,  or  been  disturbed  by  the  chatter  of  a 
crowd. 

The  wonderful  little  pictures  live  in  a  dignified  retire- 
ment, and  sing  their  silent  music  chiefly  to  the  ears  of  shabby 
little  artists  and  dreamy  middle-aged  people  who  walk  quietly 
so  as  not  to  disturb  the  harmonies. 

For  Turner  painted  for  those  people  who  have  not  lost 
all  belief  in  fairyland,  and  who  sometimes,  trembling  and 
thrilling,  can  even  yet  get  half-way  back  to  it  over  the  azure 
bridge  before  the  clouds  close  down  again  and  hide  it. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  second  room,  that  morning,  and 
nodding  to  the  custodian,  Pam  unbuttoned  her  jacket  and 
sat  down  opposite  the  little  picture  of  a  breaking  wave.  The 
room  was  quiet  and  but  for  her  empty.  Moments  passed 
before  the  girl  moved. 

And  this  is  the  great  wonder  and  power  of  the  barber's 
son,  who  spent  his  Saturdays  and  Sundays  in  horrible  rioting 
out  Ratcliff  way.  He  not  only  feeds  one's  eyes  with  nectar 
and  ambrosia,  but  he  touches  one's  imagination  with  his 


4o  PAM    DECIDES 

finger,  and  away  that  capricious  and  delicate  bit  of  mental 
machinery  goes,  weaving  pictures  of  its  own;  pictures  of 
things  forgotten,  and  things  never  seen ;  writing  poetry  with- 
out words  that  send  down  the  spine  of  its  possessor  the  most 
amazing  and  exquisite  thrills;  it  puts  an  end  to  time  and 
leads  one  back  through  centuries  that  never  began  and  never 
ended;  and  then  one  finds  oneself  on  the  azure  bridge  in 
mid-air,  facing  a  whirl  of  golden  and  rosy  clouds  that  show 
glimpses  of  the  faery-land  forlorn  that,  alas!  must  always 
disappear  before  one  reaches  it. 

And  Pam  was  standing  on  this  bridge,  breathless  and 
poised  like  a  butterfly,  when  the  custodian  came  in,  keeping 
an  eye  on  a  suspicious-looking  individual  in  a  greasy  hat  and 
a  long  cape  adapted  to  the  felonious  carrying  away  of  small 
masterpieces. 

"  Going  in  to  'ear  the  sunsets,  Miss?  "  the  custodian  asked 
with  the  comfortable  smile  of  one  repeating  an  ancient  and 
sympathetic  joke. 

She  laughed.    "  Yes.    What  a  good  memory  you  have !  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  Miss,  but  I've  never  forgot  your 

saying  that,  though  it  must  'ave  been  nearly  ten  years  ago, 

i 

I  should  think." 

"Eight.     Oh,  look,  the  sun!" 

The  suspicious-looking  cloak  having  been  removed,  the 
custodian  returned  to  the  first  room,  to  pull  the  curtains, 
and  Pam  went  on. 

The  wall  here  is  a  blaze  of  colour;  sunsets  golden  and 
sunsets  brazen;  Venice  all  aglow;  shining  stretches  of  the 
Rhone,  black-bridged  against  an  apricot  sky. 


PAM   DECIDES  41 

For  a  blissful  hour  Pam  lived  in  this  enchanted  land, 
quite  alone  but  for  the  unobjectionable  presence  of  the  man 
with  the  greasy  hat,  and  then  at  last  while  she  was,  under 
the  guidance  of  sketch  No.  668,  in  Lucerne,  in  a  black,  wet 
night,  gazing  out  over  the  water,  chilled,  and  lonely  and 
miserable  and  rapturous,  came  the  blow.  Two  ladies  and  r 
man  came  in. 

"  Oh,  these  are  rather  ducky,  aren't  they  ?  "  cried  a  pretty 
soprano  voice,  and  the  man  laughed. 

Pam  started  and  turned,  and  as  the  man  saw  her  a 
crimson  flush  spread  over  his  fat  face  and  he  rushed  at  her. 
"  I  say,  Pam,  this  is  luck, " 

Resignedly,  but  with  flight  in  her  eye,  she  gave  him  her 
hand.  "  How  do  you  do,  Ratty." 

"  I  say,  Pam, — you  didn't  answer  my  letter, — you  look 
seedy " 

"  Shabby,  you  mean ;  I'm  perfectly  well.  Don't  let  me 
keep  you,  Ratty."  But  he  set  his  jaw  in  a  way  she  re- 
membered, and  though  his  chin  was  soft  and  dimpled  the 
bony  structure  underneath  looked  obstinate. 

"  Rot, — do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  you  get  away 
now?  Well,  I'm  not." 

Appalled,  she  dashed  at  the  door,  but  before  she  could 
reach  it  he  had  made  a  hurried  excuse  to  his  friends,  and 
caught  her  up. 

"  I  didn't  come  with  *em,"  he  explained  as  he  hurried 
along,  "  I  met  'em  as  they  were  coming  in,  and  they  bagged 
me — Americans  doing  the  sights.  I  say,  Pam,  do  be  decent 
to  a  chap,  can't  you?  And — tell  me  things." 


42  PAM    DECIDES 

"  I'll  tell  you  one  thing.  It's  abominable  of  you  to  follow 
me  when  I  don't  want  you." 

"  But  I  do  so  want  to — to  hear  about  you,"  he  returned 
piteously. 

"  Well,"  she  paused  on  the  steps  and  gazed  resignedly 
at  the  nearest  lion  as  if  regretting  its  stony  inability  to  come 
to  the  rescue  by  bolting  her  oppressor,  "  hurry  up,  then. 
What  do  you  want  to  know?  I  am  very  well,  Father  and 
Mother  are  very  well,  Pilgrim  is  very  well." 

Maxse  stuck  out  his  chin  again.  "As  if  I  cared  about 
your  father  and  mother.  Tell  me  where  you  live  and  I'll 
let  you  go." 

She  opened  her  umbrella,  for  the  sun  had  gone,  and  a 
fine  rain  was  falling.  "  Shall  I  give  you  a  false  address?  I 
am  much  tempted,  you  know,  just  to  get  rid  of  you." 

"  Not  you.  I  know  you  better  than  that.  Where  do 
you  live  ?  " 

"  In  a  house." 

"  You  will  let  me  look  you  up,  won't  you  ?  I'll  only  come 
when  you  let  me,  honour  bright.  When  may  I  come?" 

Suddenly  a  spirit  of  hilarity  bobbed  up  in  the  girl  and 
she  burst  out  laughing.  "  Never,  Ratty  dear,  never.  I  live 
in  a  tenement  house  in  the  Mile  End  Road  with  some 
Italians.  You'll  usually  see  me  sitting  on  a  hurdy-gurdy 
in  a  red  jacket,  but  this  is  my  day  off " 

"  Rot !  I  tell  you  I  will  see  you,"  insisted  the  young  man, 
his  heavy  face  red  with  a  mixture  of  anger  and  admiration. 

"  And  I  tell  you  you  shall  not.  Listen,  Ratty,  let  me  go, 
And  don't  bother.  I  am  poor,  but  perfectly  respectable,  as 


PAM    DECIDES  43 

you  can  see  by  my  clothes,  and  if  I  wish  to  remain  in  ob- 
scurity, surely  that's  my  own  affair.  I  wouldn't  tell  the 
Duchess  where  we  live,  and  I  will  not  tell  you.  So  let's 
part  friends,  shall  we  ?  " 

Ignoring  her  hand,  he  put  up  his  umbrella. 

"  I've  been  looking  for  you  for  years,  and  now  I've  found 
you  I  mean  to  keep  you.  Give  me  your  address  and  I'll 
let  you  go.  Refuse,  and  I'll  follow  you." 

"  I  will  not  give  you  my  address,"  she  retorted,  now 
thoroughly  angry,  "  and  you  are  perfectly  atrocious,  as  you 
always  were,  to  torment  me.  You  might  at  least  try  to  re- 
member that  you  are  a  gentleman." 

But  the  days  were  not  far  behind  him  when  Ratty  had 
teased  for  a  disinterested  love  of  teasing,  and  he  now  fol- 
lowed her  down  the  steps  with  a  malicious  grin  under  his 
big  moustache. 

"  I've  nothing  on  earth  to  do,  to-day,"  as  she  turned  to 
the  right  and  hurried  on  through  the  rain,  "so  I  can  devote 
myself  entirely  to  you.  You  must  go  home  when  night 
comes,  I  suppose !  " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  hurried  on  at  such  a  pace  that 
she  was  at  length  obliged  to  pause  to  take  breath.  Then 
she  turned. 

"  I  ought  to  be  vastly  flattered  by  this — devotion,"  she 
began,  her  lips  curling  wickedly,  "  but  you  are  such  a 
cumbersome  admirer,  Ratty.  Your  methods  are  so — clumsy ! 
Are  you  really  going  to  pursue  me  all  day  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  his  face  changing  to  sullenness, 
11 1  am." 


44  PAM    DECIDES 

"  Then,  remembering  your  pleasant  wooing  ways  of  old, 
I  am  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  you  are  once  more  going 
to  honour  me  with  an  offer  of  your  heart  and  hand.  As 
usual,  I — refuse." 

"Better  wait  till  you're  asked,  hadn't  you?"  he  growled, 
turning  up  the  collar  of  his  light  topcoat,  as  a  raindrop 
trickled  gladly  down  his  heated  spine.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me, — I  got  over  that  nonsense  long  ago. 
But  you're  my  cousin " 

"  I  am  now,"  she  interrupted,  closing  her  umbrella,  and 
pointing  to  the  shop  before  which  they  stood,  "  going  into 
this  place  for  a  glass  of  milk  and  a  bun;  my  humble  mid- 
day meal." 

"  Then  I  go  too." 

"  Good.  Prepare  to  be  torn  to  bits,  and  to  smile  at  the 
tearers." 

They  fought  their  way  into  the  crowded,  over-heated 
room,  and  after  a  prolonged  struggle  Pam  succeeded  in 
possessing  herself  of  the  desired  refreshments  and  consumed 
them  standing,  her  wet  umbrella  under  her  arm. 

"You  are  my  cousin,"  pursued  Maxse,  angrily,  as  some- 
one stamped  on  his  foot,  "  and  I  have  a  right " 

"  I  am  not  your  cousin  at  all,  in  the  Eyes  of  the  Law, — 
which,  meaning  as  it  does  that  I  have  no  cousinly  rights 
over  you,  also  means  that  you  have  none  over  me." 

Wiping  from  her  sleeve  a  sudden  libation  of  coffee  poured 
on  it  by  a  red-faced  priestess  in  a  white  apron,  she  was 
about  to  go  on  speaking  when  he  interrupted  her. 

"  You  used  to  be  so  keen  on  my  grandfather, — can't  you 


PAM    DECIDES  45 

realise  that  he  would  want  me  to — to  protect  you  from  er— 
this?" 

Pam  set  down  her  glass  and,  the  heavier  for  about  a 
pound  of  what  she  vulgarly  called  "  fly-bun,"  paid  for  her 
dainty  meal,  and  began  insinuating  her  way  towards  the 
door.  After  all,  Ratty  was  amusing  in  his  very  absurdity ! 

"  Now,  Ratty,"  she  said,  as  they  emerged  triumphantly 
into  the  rain,  "  good-bye.  I  know  you  mean  to  be  kind,  and 
I  really  am — h'ml — grateful  to  you.  Only,  you  know,  I  am 
a  savage  and  you  must  not  try  to  track  savages  in  the  bush." 

"  Tell  me  your  address, — I  say,  Pam,  for  the  sake  of  the 
old  days  in  the  country,  you  know,  when  we  were  kids " 

His  dogged  obstinacy  was  too  much  for  her  scant  patience. 

"  I'll  not  tell  you,  you  horrid  little " 

41  Then  111  follow  you." 

"  If  you  do,"  she  cried,  white  with  helpless  anger,  "  I'll 
lead  you  such  a  dance  that  you'll  wish  you  had  never  been 
born!" 

"  Lead  away,  you  little  devil,"  he  growled.    And  she  led. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AS  she  sped  along,  untiring,  graceful,  fleet  as  a  deer,  the 
heavy,  hard-breathing  Ratty  close  on  her  heels,  it  must  be 
said  that  Pam,  angry  though  she  undoubtedly  was,  enjoyed 
herself. 

Years  ago  when  he  and  she  were  children  together  at 
Monks'  Yeoland,  their  roles  had  been  much  the  same.  The 
boy  in  him  despising  the  mere  girl  in  her,  while  her  quick 
mind  compelled  from  him  a  certain  grudging,  captivated 
admiration,  he  had  always  been  the  pursuer,  she  the  pur- 
sued. Bigger,  older,  stronger  than  she,  he  had,  as  a  lamen- 
tably fat  boy,  been  infinitely  her  inferior  when  it  came,  as  it 
often  did,  to  questions  of  speed  and  endurance,  but  her 
quick  temper,  flaring  up  as  some  final  straw  of  idiocy  or 
spite  on  his  part  broke  the  back  of  her  patience,  had  fre- 
quently, contrary  to  the  expectations  of  them  both,  given 
the  victory  to  him. 

There  was,  too,  a  stodgy  obstinacy  about  Ratty,  and  a 
certain  cunning  that  had  more  than  once  outmatched  the 
girl's  weapons,  so  that  now,  as  she  rushed  up  the  Mall,  re- 
volving in  her  mind  all  sorts  of  plans  of  escape,  she  ex- 
perienced again  the  old  thrill  of  excitement  she  had  so  often 
felt  in  her  childhood. 

At  Hyde  Park  Corner  she  would  dart  away  among  the 
crowd  of  carriages  and  'buses  and  with  a  little  luck  ought 
to  be  able  to  outwit  him. 

46 


PAM    DECIDES  47 

The  distance  between  them  was  slowly  increasing,  too, 
she  saw  with  a  quick  backward  glance,  and  he  was  wiping 
his  face  with  his  handkerchief! 

"  He's  pretty  well  blown,"  she  told  herself  with  satis- 
faction, as  she  put  on  a  little  more  speed. 

But  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  she  was  obliged  to  stop  to  tie 
her  shoe,  and  as  she  stooped  he  came  up. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Pam,  you  are  the  most  utter  Cotter 
I  ever  knew  in  my  life,"  h^  began,  still  mopping  his 
face.  "  I  suppose  you  think  you're  being  funny,  but  you're 
not." 

"  Indeed  I  don't  think  I'm  being  funny.  I  never  was  in 
greater  earnest  in  my  life,  Ratty.  My  word,  but  you  must 
be  out  of  condition,"  she  added,  getting  up,  and  inspecting 
his  heated  face  with  cruel  minuteness,  "  you  look  like  a 
boiled  lobster.  Aren't  you  afraid  of  apoplexy?" 

"  No,  I'm  not,  as  it  happens.  You  look  like  the  Witch 
of  Endor,  yourself,"  he  returned,  "and  your  hair's  coming 
down.  Come,  drop  this  nonsense,  and  behave  like  a  human 
being.  I  take  it  for  granted  that  Julia  Yeoland's  story  about 
the  Variety  stage  is  not  true !  " 

"  Yes  it  is, — oh,  anything  is  true,  Ratty,  that  would  dis- 
gust you!  Can't  you  see  that  you  bore  me  to  tears,  and 
can't  you  let  me  alone  ?  " 

"  No,  I — won't.  You  are  my — well,  most  girls  would  be 
glad  enough  to  be  called  cousin,  under  the  circumstances, — 
and  as  I  happen  to  want  to  know  where  you  live,— -really, 
Pam,  I  don't  see  why  you're  so  horrid  to  me !  " 

Pam,  whose  eyes  were  wet  with  helpless  vexation,  but 


48  PAM   DECIDES 

whose  sense  of  justice  would  not  allow  her  to  overlook  the 
pathetic  side  of  this  afflicting  devotion,  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Look  here,  Ratty,"  she  said,  suddenly  gentle,  "  I  am 
really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your — for  your  interest 
in  me,  but  I  do  not  want  to  give  you  my  address,  and  am  not 
going  to  do  it.  Can't  you  be  reasonable,  and  admit  that 
I  must  have  good  reasons  for  living  as  I  do?  I've  told  you 
that  even  the  Duchess  has  given  up  trying  to  find  out.  I 
am  quite  happy  living  alone  with  Pilly,  and  I  don't  want 
ever  again  to  get  into  touch  with  the  people  I  used  to  know 
when — when  I  lived  with  Grandfather.  I  can't  go  into 
details,  but  it's  because  I  am  poor,  and  for  other  reasons, 
and  all  those  people  are — dead  to  me." 

But  Ratty  was  unmoved  by  her  appeal.  "  I  ain't  dead," 
he  observed  stolidly,  still  holding  her  hand,  "  and  I  promise 
not  to  tell  Evy  or  the  Duchess " 

"  No,  you're  not  dead !  You're  one  of  the  awful  dead  who 
will  not  die, — one  of  the  bores  who  never  stop  boring, — 
Very  well,  then,"  jerking  her  hand  from  his  warm  clasp, 
"  if  you  insist  on  being  an  imbecile,  run  me  to  earth  if  you 
can !  "  And  away  she  flew  towards  Apsley  House,  dodging 
horses,  'buses,  even  an  indignant  policeman,  and  on  re- 
gaining the  safety  of  the  pavement  almost  ran  down 
Piccadilly. 

Her  plan  was  fairly  subtle,  though  simple.  On  reaching 
the  Burlington  Arcade  she  slipped  lizard-like  through  its 
crowd,  and  then,  turning  to  her  right,  doubled  back  through 
the  Royal  Arcade  to  Piccadilly. 

Oh,  joy,  she  had  foiled  him  I     His  burly  figure,  as  she 


PAM   DECIDES  49 

looked  back,  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  as  she  reached  the 
Piccadilly  entrance  she  stood  still  for  a  moment  to  get 
breath  before  her  contemplated  pounce  into  a  'bus.  And 
then,  her  hand  arrested  in  its  work  of  smoothing  back  a 
loosened  lock  of  hair,  she  saw  him,  lumbering  along  towards 
her  through  the  crowd.  Despair  filled  her  heart,  for  in  «ne 
moment  he  must  see  her,  and  she  was  at  last  tired,  and 
evening  was  coming  on,  and  for  Pilgrim's  sake  she  must 
go  home.  One  more  second  and  he  would  have  seen  her, 
when  turning  the  other  way  her  eyes  fell  on  the  large  form 
of  an  old  lady  climbing  into  her  brougham,  three  feet  away. 
The  Duchess! 

The  footman  mounted  to  his  place,  Ratty  drew  nearer, 
he  saw  Pam  and  put  on  speed — almost  in  one  spring  Pam 
reached  the  carriage,  tore  open  the  door  and  was  borne  away 
sitting  helplessly  in  the  Duchess's  lap,  before  her  pursuer's 
very  eyes. 

"  Pam !    Good  Heavens  child,  how  you  frightened  me !  " 

Pam  tumbled  to  the  seat  of  the  carriage  and  sat  shaking 
with  laughter.  "  Oh,  did  you  see  him, — did  you  see  his 
face  ?  "  she  cried,  wiping  her  eyes,  "  and  you  don't  mind  my 
bouncing  in  on  you  like  that,  do  you  ?  " 

The  Duchess,  very  bulky  but  elegant  in  a  toilette  composed 
chiefly  of  ermine  and  lace,  did  not  mind  at  all,  it  appeared. 
On  the  contrary  she  was  delighted  to  see  the  reprobate 
Pam  under  any  circumstances,  and  kissed  her  affectionately, 
while  she  asked  "  But  who  was  it?  And  what  can  you  ex- 
pect if  you  go  to  the  Burlington  Arcade  at  this  time  of 
day?" 


50  PAM    DECIDES 

Pam  straightened  her  hat  and  corrected  obvious  im- 
pressions. 

"  Oh  dear,  you're  all  wrong.  It  was  Ratty — Ratty 
Maxse.  For  my  sins  I  met  him  at  the  National  Gallery 
this  morning  and  he  has  literally  been  chasing  me  all  over 
town,  trying  to  find  out  my  address." 

"The  Fat  Boy?" 

"  The  Fat  Boy.  Oh,  Duchess,  he  is  the  most  awful  person. 
I  should  never  have  had  another  moment's  peace  if  he  had 
found  out  where  I  live,  and  I've  been  positively  running 
for  hours,  he  after  me  hot  foot.  I  haven't  laughed  so  hard 
for  years, — to  see  his  silly  face  as  we  drove  away.  And 
to  think  of  your  appearing  just  at  the  right  moment  like 
an  angel  in  a  chariot " 

The  Duchess  looked  at  her  shrewdly. 

"  He  used  to  want  to  marry  you,  I  remember,"  she  ob- 
served, "  does  he  still  want  to?  " 

"  Yes.    He  thinks  he  doesn't,  but  he  does." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  such  faithfulness  is  very — unusual,  and 
very  beautiful.  When  I  think  of  the  trouble  Agatha  Ben- 
nington  had  to  keep  Wanwick  and  Toby  Bell  up  to  the 
scratch!  The  girls  look  very  well  at  night,  and  managed 
the  proposals  all  right,  but  Wanwick  went  off  yachting 
the  very  next  day,  and  Bell  behaved  frightfully.  They  very 
nearly  escaped,  I  can  tell  you,  both  of  'em,  and  here  is  this 
boy  sticking  to  you  for  years." 

"  That's  just  the  word ;  he  does  '  stick,'  "  assented  Pam, 
drily.  "  Faithfulness  when  it  isn't  wanted,  becomes  a  vice. 
The  way  that  wretched  youth  has  bored  me  amounts  to  a 


PAM   DECIDES  51 

social  crime,  and  if  he  had  tracked  me  home  I'd  have  packed 
up  and  decamped  in  the  night  to  escape  him.  Surely  you 
don't  want  me  to  marry  him  ?  "  she  added. 

"  Of  course  I  don't,  but, — well,  my  dear,  you  are  seven- 
and-twenty  and  you  have  a  delicate  skin." 

"  What  has  my  skin, — oh,  where  are  we?" 

The  carriage  had  stopped  and  the  footman  opened  the 
door  trying  to  look  as  though  he  were  used  to  having  ladies 
get  out  of  his  carriage  who  had  not  to  his  knowledge,  got  in. 

"  Green  Street,  my  dear, — at  Kenny's.  James  and  she 
have  gone  to  the  country  for  the  day,  and  I  promised  to  come 
for  a  look  at  Marmy,  who  has  had  a  cold,  poor  laddie." 

Pam  withdrew  her  arm  from  the  old  lady's.  "  I  must 
be  off  home  now,"  she  said,  "  or  Filly  will  be  frightened. 
Thanks  so  much  for  rescuing  me." 

"  No,  no,  I  want  you  to  come  in  with  me.  I  shan't  stay 
more  than  two  minutes  and  then  I'll  drive  you — anywhere 
you  say.  I  have  several  things  to  tell  you." 

"  I— I  can't  go  in." 

The  Duchess  turned,  as  the  door  opened.  "  My  dear 
Pamela,"  she  said  a  little  sharply,  in  French,  "  don't  be 
absurd.  I  know  your  ideas,  and  I  will  not  tell  Henrietta 
that  you  have  been  here.  So  come  in  and  behave  yourself." 

Thus  Pam  went  into  James  Peele's  house. 


CHAPTER   VII 

IT  was  a  house  of  "fair  and  gorgeous  building,"  ornate 
with  carton  pierre  and  delicate  gilding,  rich  with  brocades 
and  silks,  gay  with  glossy  floors  and  fine  rugs.  It  looked 
new,  though  the  Peeles  had  lived  in  it  for  eight  years. 

While  they  waited  in  the  drawing-room,  the  Duchess 
asked  Pam  how  she  liked  it. 

"  It  looks — expensive,"  answered  the  girl  truthfully. 

"  So  it  is.  Too  new,  too,  don't  you  think  ?  That's  Henny, 
she  hates  shabby  things, — so  ill-bred  of  her,  I  always  think, 
though  she  is  my  daughter !  She  never  had  much  taste,  poor 
dear,  except  for  dress.  And  as  for  Jim, — he  never  says  a 
word,  and  I  think  if  she  chose  to  furnish  the  house  in 
barley-sugar  he  wouldn't  care." 

"  Is  he  so — good-natured  ?  "  Pam  stood  ajt  the  far  end 
of  the  long  room,  looking  at  a  portrait  lighted  by  clusters 
of  electric  water-lilies. 

"  Well, — not  exactly  what  I  should  call  good-natured, 
but — it  amounts  practically  to  the  same  thing.  I  sometimes 
think  she'd  like  it  better  if  he  were  not  quite  so — easy-going." 

"  H'm!  This  is  a  beautiful  portrait  of  her.  When  was 
it  done  ?  " 

"The  winter  before  last.  Sargent.  Aren't  the  pearls 
amazing.  Oh,  yes,  it's  good,  but  you  remember  her  when 
she  was  younger,  though  not  when  she  was  quite  young." 

"  When  I  knew  her  she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman 

52 


PAM   DECIDES  53 

I  ever  dreamed  of,"  cried  Pam,  "  and  everyone  said  she  was 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  England !  " 

Pam  had  not  seen  Lady  Henrietta  Peele  for  nine  years, 
but  the  memory  of  her  and  her  amazing  loveliness  was  so 
interwoven  with  her  own  most  poignant  joy  and  pain,  that 
her  voice  quivered  as  she  spoke.  "  I  am  sorry — it  is  going  " 
— she  added,  to  cover  her  own  emotion.  "  The  beauty, 
I  mean." 

"  Ah,  yes.  It  is  sad,"  returned  the  old  lady.  "  One  of 
the  many  advantages  of  plainness  is  that  the  tragic  waning 
of  beauty  never  comes  to  its  possessor." 

"  Does  she — mind  ?  "  asked  Pam,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  Duchess  rose  and  waddled  to  her  with  the  graceless 
speed  of  a  seal  on  land.  "  My  dear, — yes,  she  does.  For 
him.  That  is  the  tragedy.  She  thinks  he  minds,  and  he 
doesn't  even  notice !  " 

Before  Pam  had  time  to  answer  a  fresh-faced  woman  in 
the  costume  of  a  trained  nurse  came  into  the  room  and  in- 
forming Her  Grace  that  Master  Marmaduke  had  already, 
because  of  a  slight  cold,  been  put  to  bed,  Pam  found  herself, 
a  moment  later,  going  upstairs  in  this  house  she  had  never 
thought  to  enter. 

Her  hand  slid  up  the  broad  balustrade  his  so  often 
touched,  her  feet  trod  where  his  trod  nearly  every  day  of  his 
life.  She  passed  doors  he  opened  daily,  and  followed  the 
nurse  and  the  Duchess  into  the  big,  airy,  up-to-date  night 
nursery. 

Behind  a  green  paper  screen  on  which,  in  oval  white 
panels  rosy-faced  children  consumed  bread-and-milk,  prayed, 


54  PAM   DECIDES 

and  slept,  stood  the  bed,  and  it  was  James  Peele's  child, 
this  little,  pale,  big-eyed  creature  who  politely  sat  up  at 
their  approach,  and  did  the  honours  with  weary  dignity. 

"  How  d'you  do,  Granny  dear." 

"  How  d'you  do,  my  love?  I  hope  Granny's  boy  is  well," 
answered  the  old  woman  sitting  down  and  taking  his  hand 
in  hers. 

"  I.  am  not  very  well,  thank  you.  I  have  caught  another 
cold,  haven't  I,  Miss  Arnott?" 

Pam  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  looking  gravely  at  the 
child. 

"  Whom  does  he  look  like,  Pam?  "  asked  the  Duchess. 

"Like— his  father." 

"Who  is  that  lady,  Granny  dear?"  Marmy's  deep-set 
grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  Pam's  face. 

"  A  friend  of  Granny's,  dear  love,  who  is  very  fond  of 
little  boys !  " 

"Are  you  an  aunt?"  pursued  Marmaduke,  mildly  bent 
on  following  out  his  investigations.  Pam  laughed.  "  No, 
not  an  aunt,  nor  even  a  cousin,"  she  said  gently.  "  Will  you 
tell  me  how  old  you  are?" 

Marmy  was  six.  Yes,  he  liked  dolls,  and  he  liked  soldiers. 
No,  he  was  not  going  to  be  a  soldier,  because  walking  made 
him  tired. 

He  answered  her  questions  most  civilly,  and  asked  Miss 
Arnott  to  get  her  a  chair,  but  Pam  walked  away  to  the  fire 
and  left  him  alone  with  his  grandmother. 

"  He's  a  dear  little  boy,"  she  said  to  the  nurse,  "  I  am 
sorry  he  has  a  cold." 


PAM    DECIDES  55 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  him.  This  cold  is  nothing,  but 
— we  have  to  be  very  careful  of  him." 

Pam  was  silent,  and  stood  looking  sombrely  into  the  fire, 
which  threw  strange  flickering  shadows  over  her  face  and 
splashed  her  dark  and  muddy  skirt  with  crimson. 

Suddenly  the  Duchess,  who  had  wrapped  the  child  in  a 
blanket,  and  taken  him  on  her  lap,  called  out  with  a  laugh, 
"  Pam,  your  hair  is  tumbling  down  and  you  show  other 
signs  of  your  turbulent  day.  Miss  Arnott  will  take  you  into 
Kenny's  rooms  for  repairs." — As  the  door  closed  behind 
them  Pam  heard  the  old  woman's  voice  raised  in  a  funny 
uncertain  kind  of  singing. 

"  It's  '  Old  Uncle  Ned,'  "  explained  the  nurse,  turning 
the  lights  on  and  flooding  the  room  with  a  soft  light ;  "  he's 
very  fond  of  it,  and  always  makes  Her  Grace  sing  it." 

And  this  was  Henrietta  Peele's  room,  this  big  room  hung 
in  pale  blue;  this  dressing-table  glass  in  which  her  own 
haggard  little  face  was  reflected  was  the  one  in  which  she 
looked  every  day;  the  jewelled  hat-pin  on  the  sf>f'"  cushion 
was  hers;  the  comb  Pam  had  taken  up  combed  her  hair. 

As  if  in  a  dream  the  girl  took  off  her  hat,  and  taking  a 
big  silver  brush,  smoothed  with  it  the  glossy  dark  hair  that 
grew  so  neatly  on  her  blue-veined  temples. 

"  There  was  an  old  nigger,  and  his  name  was  Uncle  Ned," 
— came  the  old  voice  from  the  next  room. 

The  face  in  the  glass  was  so  wan  and  monkey-like  that  its 
owner  started  and  began  to  talk  without  a  very  clear  idea 
of  what  she  was  saying.  "Is  he  really  so  delicate, — little 
Marmaduke?  " 


•56  PAM    DECIDES 

The  nurse,  who  had  opened  a  door  and  lighted  the 
dressing-room,  hesitated.  "  Well,  he's  not  strong.  No 
organic  trouble,  you  know,  but — great  constitutional  deli- 
cacy. Would  you  like  to  wash  your  hands?"  And  then 
while  Pam  washed  her  hands  in  Henrietta  Peek's  basin 
and  dried  tkem  on  Henrietta  Peele's  lace-trimmed  towel, 
the  nurse  went  on,  "  I  very  much  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
keeping  him  in  town  these  next  three  months.  Of  course, 
it's  no  business  of  mine,  and  I  can't  say  anything, 
but — February  and  March  are  dreadful  months  for  del- 
icate children.  The  doctor  says  there  will  be  no  danger, 
but " 

"  But  you  think  there  will  be  ?  " 

Pam  was  pinning  on  her  hat,  well  down  over  her  tell- 
tale eyes,  at  the  dressing-table. 

"  I  think  he  would  be — safer,  in  a  better  climate.  Please 
do  not  say  I  said  so,  because — I  have  no  right  to  express  an 
opinion  but — if  the  Duchess  could  be  made  to  see,  she  might 
convince  Lady  Henrietta." 

"  But  I  thought  Lady  Henrietta  was  always  so  anxious." 

"  She  is.  But, — they  did  think  of  going  to  the  south  of 
France,  but  Mr.  Peele  can't  get  away,  and — I  fancy  Lady 
Henrietta  would  dislike  going  without  him, — 

"  I  understand.  But  I  fear  I  can't  do  anything  in  the 
matter.  I  very  rarely  see  the  Duchess,  and  I  have  not  seen 
Lady  Henrietta  for  years.  If  I  were  you  I  should  speak 
quite  frankly  to  either  her  or — Mr.  Peele." 

The  Duchess  had  put  the  little  boy  into  bed,  when  Pam 
went  back  to  her,  and  the  concert  was  over. 


I 

PAM    DECIDES  57 

"  Good-bye,  my  darling,"  the  old  lady  said,  kissing  the 
child,  "  Granny  dear  will  come  again  to-morrow." 

"  Good-bye,  Granny  dear.  Good-bye,"  he  added  to  Pam, 
giving  her  his  hand,  and  putting  up  his  face  for  the  kiss 
he  did  not  want.  She  shook  hands  with  him,  but  did  not 
kiss  him. 

Twenty  minutes  later  on  top  of  a  homeward-bound  'bus, 
next  a  lady  with  an  uncorked  gin-bottle  under  her  shawl, 
she  sat  full  of  the  misery  of  memory. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AFTER  thus  having  brought  Pam,  within  a  few  weeks,  in 
touch  with  Ratty,  the  Duchess,  and,  indirectly,  with  Peele 
and  his  wife,  Fate  withdrew  his  finger  from  the  girl's 
particular  pie,  and  a  month  passed  unmarked  by  any  event 
whatsoever. 

Haunted  for  days  by  memories  of  Peele's  house  and  his 
child,  tormented  by  the  persistent  recurrence  of  things  that 
for  years  had  lain  fallow  in  her  mind,  forced  by  a  malicious 
demon  to  go  over  old  scenes,  recall  old  words,  reconstruct 
dead-and-gone  events,  she  plunged  herself,  as  was  her  wont 
in  such  circumstances,  headlong  into  an  environment  as 
different  as  possible  from  that  from  which  she  wished  to  turn 
her  thoughts. 

During  the  dull  days  while  Pilgrim  sat  frowsting  over  the 
fire,  the  pirl,  with  a  set  face  and  sternly  watchful  eyes, 
tramped  about  the  lowly  streets  of  the  neighbourhood  and 
tried  to  interest  herself  in  the  humble  affairs  of  their  in- 
habitants. 

And  of  course,  little  by  little,  she  succeeded  in  her  honest 
endeavour,  and  won  back  the  contented  calm  out  of  which 
her  visit  to  Green  Street  had  shaken  her. 

She  had  never  hoped  to  be  able  to  forget  James  Peele  and 
the  events  connected  with  him,  but  time  had  dimmed  and 
taken  the  bitterness  from  those  memories,  to  such  an  extent 
that  she  had  not  only  been  distressed  but  terrified  by  the 

58 


PAM    DECIDES  59 

strength  with  which  they  had  revived,  and  it  had  taken  all 
her  courage  to  fight,  and  conquer  the  obsession.  But  when 
the  ghost  again  lay  silent,  and  she  had  given  herself  a  last 
lecture  on  the  subject,  she  went  her  way  watching  life  among 
the  poor  people  with  the  sympathy  and  forbearance  that 
lay  in  her,  and  that  would  always  prevent  custom  from  hard- 
ening, or  frequent  disillusion  embittering  her. 

She  was  no  slummer.  She  was  shy  of  asking  questions, 
and  shrank  from  hard  words,  and  there  were  many  things 
that  seemed  to  her  the  exclusive  right  of  others  than  her- 
self. But  in  spite,  or  possibly  because  of  these  things,  she  met 
with  no  rudeness  in  her  wanderings,  and  had  several  ac- 
quaintances, almost  to  be  ranked  as  friends,  in  the  purlieus 
of  Seven  Dials,  and  had  long  ago  learned  a  good  many 
things  that,  assimilated  unconsciously,  without  pedagogy, 
give  to  an  intelligent  mind  that  quickness  of  understanding 
and  breadth  of  view  the  peculiar  quality  of  which  is  best 
expressed  as  "  knowing  how  to  put  yourself  into  another's 
place." 

As  nearly  as  may  be  for  a  childless  woman  Pam  knew, 
one  wet  January  evening,  what  must  be  the  agony  of  a 
mother  whose  child  had  just  died  of  starvation,  and  also 
how  a  sorrow-crazed  brain  can  come  to  the  point  of  con- 
ceiving revenge  against  those  brutal  rich  people  who  could 
help  and  do  not. 

It  was  she  who  helped  a  neighbour  hold  the  mad-woman 
until  ropes  could  be  brought,  and  later,  when  the  poor 
creature's  dangerous  despair  had  dwindled  to  a  moaning 
lethargy,  it  was  Pam  who  rushed  away  and  came  back  with 


60  PAM   DECIDES 

empty  pockets,  and  a  white  frock  for  the  dead  child,  and 
flowers  to  close  into  its  little  fingers.  The  mother  did  not 
thank  her,  the  neighbours  rather  ignored  her,  but  they 
suffered  her  presence  as  an  equal,  and  she  knew  that  that 
was  much. 

For  years  she  had  lived  among  people  who,  poor  as  she 
was,  looked  on  her  as  rich,  and  she  had  learned,  quite  un- 
consciously, to  treat  each  man  as  a  man,  each  woman  as  a 
woman,  and  not  as  a  more  or  less  respectable  suit  of  clothes 
or  dress,  and  little  by  little  they  learned  to  treat  her  in  the 
same  way. 

By  nature  fastidious,  she  disliked  evil  smells  and  un- 
pleasant sights  as  much  as  the  finest  of  fine  ladies,  but  it  lay 
in  her  to  love  life,  and  anything  that  is  real  is  life,  and 
anything  that  is  real  is  endurable,  so  that  without  any  dis- 
tinct bias  towards  good  works,  she  had  gradually  lost  certain 
educated  horrors  and  hatreds,  and  got  in  touch  with  her 
neighbours. 

And  now  they  had  unconsciously  helped  her  in  her  hour 
of  very  real  need,  by  occupying  her  mind  and  turning  her 
thoughts  outward.  Inbreeding  is  as  bad  in  things  mental 
as  in  things  physical,  and  this  she  escaped. 

Late  in  February  arrived  a  false  and  deceiving,  but  for 
the  time  very  delightful  period  of  Spring  weather,  and  then, 
forcing  the  lazy  Pilgrim  to  go  with  her,  the  girl  made  long 
expeditions  on  'buses, — "  everybody's  carriage "  as  "de 
Amicis"  calls  the  tram.  And  while  Pilgrim*  grimly  re- 
spectable in  her  beaded  mantle  and  bonnet  with  a  bunch 
of  pansies  on  it,  sat  as  silent  as  what  she  called  the 


PAM    DECIDES  61 

Pam  amused  herself  by  talking  to  any  of  her  neighbours  who 
might  look  promising. 

They  went  to  Camden  Heath,  they  went  to  Islington, 
they  went  to  Hampstead.  They  drank  tea  at  those  delightful 
suburbs,  Pam  once  even  disgraced  Pilgrim  by  eating  a  bun 
on  the  'bus  coming  back  from  Ealing.  And  for  all  practical 
purposes  a  'bus  is  as  good  as  a  four-in-hand. 

It  was  on  the  way  to  Kilburn  that  she  made  friends  with 
an  old  man  who  had  been  in  the  charge  at  Balaclava.  And 
friends  they  remained  until  he  died,  and  she  went  to  his 
funeral  at  Lower  Tooting  and  was  snubbed  by  his  sour- 
faced  daughter-in-law  who  audibly  referred  to  her  as  "  fa- 
ther's lady  friend." 

Thus,  by  the  end  of  February,  Pam  had  again  settled  down 
into  her  way's  quiet  tenor,  and  was  contented  and  happy. 
Her  absurd  novelettes  which  appeared,  as  she  had  told  the 
Duchess,  in  a  pale-blue  periodical,  brought  her  ten  guineas 
apiece,  and  she  was  enabled,  by  long  practice,  to  reel  them 
off  as  fast  as  she  could  write. 

Her  method  was  simple.    First  came  the  list  of  names: — 

Elfrida  Bellingham — Heroine. 

Sir  Lionel  Beaufort — Hero. 

Dowager  Countess  of  Wandsworth — Bullying  villainess, 

Dr.  Kane — Her  tool,  in  love  with  Elfrida. 

Countess  de  Preaux — Adventuress,  in  love  with  Lionel. 

Retainers,  cottagers,  guests,  etc.,  ad.  lib. 

Wise  enough  to  employ  all  the  old  tricks  that  invariably 


62  PAM   DECIDES 

delight  the  public  to  which  The  Lady's  Own  caters,  she 
would  thus  begin. 

Elfrida,  always  beautiful  and  usually  blonde,  was  of 
either  giddily  high  or  pathetically  humble  origin. 

Sir  Lionel,  a  Greek  God  in  knickers,  his  broad  chest  a 
perfect  storehouse  of  noble  sentiments,  always  fell  in  love 
with  Elfrida  at  first  sight,  and  his  love,  though  fiery,  was 
ever  divested  of  the  slightest  touch  of  the  earthy.  Then  there 
was  the  purse-proud  and  ambitious  dowager  and  her  vile 
slave,  the  doctor  (learned  in  poisons  and  utterly  unscrupu- 
lous), and  the  adventuress,  almost  invariably,  in  conform- 
once  with  the  good  old  English  superstition  that  no  English- 
woman ever  was  anything  so  base,  French  or  Italian.  And 
the  tale  worked  out  to  the  worsting  of  the  wicked,  the 
glittering  triumph  of  the  good  characters.  Alas,  that  life  is 
not  so  simple ! 

Then,  while  Lionel  clasped  Elfrida  in  his  manly  arms, — 
quick  curtain. 

Utter  rubbish,  these  stories,  ridiculous  in  plot,  faulty  in 
construction, — in  a  word  devoid  of  all  but  one  of  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  real  novelists.  The  people  described,  impos- 
sible and  absurd  as  they  were  in  act,  were  in  their  manner 
and  conversation,  alive. 

The  first  story,  written  to  amuse  herself,  after  reading 
a  similar  tale  in  the  same  paper,  lent  Pilgrim  by  the  land- 
lady in  Montague  Place,  and  sent  to  the  Editor  as  a  wild 
experiment,  in  a  sudden  hour  of  need,  had,  to  Pam's  great 
surprise,  been  accepted,  and  finding  it  an  easy  matter  to 
ring  the  necessary  changes  on  the  primary  plot,  and  a  pleas- 


PAM    DECIDES  63 

ant  one  to  get  at  first  six  and  then  ten  guineas  for  the  stories, 
she  had  naturally  enough  continued  writing. 

And  writing  for  a  particular  public  she  had  wisely  kept 
strictly  to  her  model,  but  her  sense  of  humour  was  so  keen 
that  even  as  she  wrote  her  preposterous  pot-boilers  she  poked 
fun  at  herself  and  indulged  in  quips  and  gentle  jeers  in  a 
way  that  in  time  had  grown  to  be  a  distinct  and  very  popular 
mannerism.  And  not  many  people  can  boast  of  having  writ- 
ten twenty-two  novels  in  six  years! 


CHAPTER  IX 

;<  GOOD  evening,  officer." 

"  Good  evening,  Miss." 

"  How  is  your  old  church  to-day?  " 

Officer  Brown,  huge,  and  bland  with  the  sweet  atmospheie 
of  authority  that  hung  over  him,  smiled  at  the  question  and 
the  questioner. 

"  My  old  church  is  very  well,  thank  you,  Miss,  and  the 
new  grass  is  beginning  to  come  up  in  the  Cloisters.  You 
'aven't  been  round  for  a  long  time,  Miss.  Not  been  ill,  I 
'ope?" 

"  No,  thanks,  but — the  winter  has  been  long.  I  am  glad 
spring  is  coming." 

Pam  had  come  through  Old  Dean's  Yard,  after  a  long 
prowl  in  Great  Peter  Street,  where  she  had  some  banana- 
selling  friends  with  whom  she  enjoyed  an  occasional  chat 
in  their  own  tongue.  She  had  also  stood  for  half  an  hour 
in  Vincent  Square,  watching  the  Westminster  schoolboys 
playing  football,  and  then,  suddenly  tired,  had  come  for  a 
rest  in  the  old  Cloister. 

It  was  the  middle  of  March,  and  a  mild,  warm  day;  the 
kind  of  day  that  insidiously  encourages  in  one  and  all  the 
poor,  wee  sprouts  of  summer  sentiments  that  the  next  cold 
night  will  nip  in  the  bud. 

As  the  girl  disappeared  through  the  old  black  door,  Officer 
Brown  looked  after  her.  "  That's  a  very  pleasant  lady," 

64 


PAM    DECIDES  65 

he  remarked  to  a  friend  who  had  come  in  to  see  him.  "  I've 
known  her  for  years,  and  she  always  'as  a  pleasant  word." 

"  She  must  ha'  been  pretty,  too,"  returned  the  friend,  who 
had  an  eye  for  a  woman,  and  had  liked  Pam's  way  of  walk- 
ing. But  the  policeman  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  no ;  not  pretty.  Too  pale  for  my  taste,  and  too 
thin,  too.  A  waist  as  I  could  take  in  my  'and,  and  I  don't 
like  that.  But  very  pleasant,  very  pleasant,  indeed,"  he 
added,  unconsciously  quoting  the  newest  of  our  immortal 
Williams. 

"  Married  ?  "  asked  the  friend,  chewing  a  blade  of  grass. 

"  You've  got  me  there,  'Enry.  I'm  blest  if  I  know.  I 
never  seen  'er  with  any  man, — nor  with  any  woman,  neither, 
for  that  matter.  She's  always  alone  and  always  civil;  that's 
all  I  know, — except  that  she  looks  lonely  as  well  as  alone, 
don't  she?  Comes  every  two  or  three  months  and  prowls 
about  like  a  mouse,  reading  the  inscriptions,  and  so  on.  And 
always  very  pleasant." 

Meantime  Pam  had  gone  part  way  down  the  side  of  the 
Cloister  by  which  one  enters,  and  then,  very  tired,  leaned 
against  the  stone-work,  her  back  to  the  quadrangle,  to  rest. 

At  her  feet  slept  Nuzio  Clementi,  called  the  father  of  the 
pianoforte,  as  the  tablet  attested. 

It  was  cool  and  damp  under  the  blackened  arches,  and  so 
quiet.  Tke  immense  rhythmical  quiet  of  the  great  abbey 
is  a  wonderful  thing,  and  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  she  had 
reached  in  a  sea  of  noise  an  island  in  beating  against  whose 
shores  the  waves  were  struck  dumb.  Where  was  London 
and  its  clamour  ?_ 


66  PAM    DECIDES 

She  was  overtired  and  nervous,  and  there  was  a  plaintive 
loneliness  in  the  moist  spring  air.  Suddenly  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  with  an  impatient  shake  of  her  head  she 
rose  and  walked  on. 

"  You  need  a  tonic,"  she  told  herself,  scornfully,  "  iron 
and  cod-liver  oil !  " 

Turning  to  the  right,  she  had  just  passed  the  Chapter 
House  door,  when  a  soft  whirring  of  most  melodious  bells 
rilled  the  air  like  a  sound  of  angelic  wings,  and  she  stood 
still,  gazing  out  on  the  young  greenness  of  the  grass.  It 
was,  then,  three  o'clock. 

"  No  wonder  I  felt  tearful,"  she  thought,  shaking  her 
head  to  clear  away  the  tears;  "I  forgot  all  about  lunch! 
Oh,  for  a  bun !  "  And  she  walked  on  blindly,  for  she  had 
no  handkerchief,  and  her  gloves  were  not  clean. 

And  when  her  eyes  were  dry,  she  looked  up  to  find  herself 
face  to  face  with  a  man:  with  Lamartine!  Lamartine  of 
the  foggy  day  in  Berkeley  Square,  Lamartine  of  the  pawn- 
shop. He  had  recognised  her  as  soon  as  he  saw  her,  and 
while  she  tried  to  look  as  though  she  had  never  before  seen 
him,  he  took  off  his  hat, — only  a  bowler,  this  time,  but  a 
beautiful,  beautiful  bowler, — and  said,  quietly,  "  I  have 
not  seen  you  for  a  long  time." 

Before  she  could  summon  up  an  appropriate  answer,  he 
went  on :  "  The  first  time,  you  know,  was  in  a  beastly  fog 
in  Berkeley  Square,  near  Mount  Street,  and  the  second  time 
was  at  Cornwall's,  where  you  were  pawning  a  ring." 

Somehow  his  simple  facing  of  the  ring  affair  seemed  to 
set  Pirn  instantly  at  her  ease. 


PAM    DECIDES  67 

"  Yes,"  she  returned ;  "  and  you  were  looking  at  a  little 
shagreen  box;  did  you  buy  it?" 

He  smiled,  and  the  peculiarity  of  his  smile  was  that  it  in 
no  way  disturbed  the  serene  beauty  of  his  mouth,  though  it 
was  a  genuine  expression  of  feeling  and  no  mere  muscular 
contraction. 

"  Yes,  I  bought  it ;  it  is  a  delightful  little  box, — very  ex- 
cellent shagreen.  You  like  this  place?" — waving  a  slim 
hand  in  a  dogskin  glove  with  a  little  proprietary  air  that  did 
not  escape  the  dark  eyes  watching  him. 

"Yes,  I  love  it.    And  you?" 

"  I,  too,"  he  answered,  simply.  "  I  love  old  quietude  like 
this,  and  I  come  here  very  frequently.  It  is  strange  that  we 
have  not  met  before,  for  you,  too,  come  often?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  very,  for  I  live  far  away,  but 
I  love  this  old  Cloister." 

His  dark-blue  clothes  were  faultless,  she  saw,  the  ends  of 
his  turned-down  collar  met  with  an  accuracy  which  surely 
no  other  collar  on  earth  could  boast,  and  under  it  a  bit  of 
scarlet  silk  flashed  in  the  gathering  dusk.  Boots?  Of 
course,  the  most  perfect  brown  ones  ever  seen.  And  yet  she 
could  not  set  him  down  as  a  dandy  as,  his  glass  in  his  eye, 
he  stood  leaning  towards  her  with  a  near-sighted  eagerness. 
And  again  she  realised  that  it  was  because  his  face  so  abso- 
lutely dominated  the  rest  of  him,  and  standing  close  to  him 
as  she  did,  she  had  to  deliberately  measure  him  with  her  eye 
to  learn  that  he  was  barely,  if  quite,  as  tall  as  she  herself. 

"  Jane  Lister,  dear  childe,"  he  was  murmuring,  as  she  came 
to  this  conclusion,  and  for  a  moment  she  stared  at  him, 


68  PAM   DECIDES 

thinking  that  he  had  mistaken  her  for  someone  else,  until 
he  continued,  turning  toward  the  wall,  "  I  am  very  fond  of 
dear  Jane  Lister ;  are  not  you  ?  " 

And  she,  following  his  eyes,  understood.  "  Jane  Lister, 
dear  childe,"  was  cut  into  a  tablet  opposite  them. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer;  not  because  there  was 
any  constraint  between  her  and  the  little  exquisite  with  the 
high-bred  pink  and  white  face,  but  because  there  was  not. 

It  seemed  so  absolutely  natural  that  he  and  she  should  be 
standing  there  in  the  gathering  dusk,  dreaming  a  little  dream 
about  the  child  buried  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Presently  their  eyes  met,  and  he  spoke.  "  I  am  Jean  de 
Lensky,  of  the  Russian  Embassy,"  he  said,  "  Second  Secre- 
tary. You  will  let  me  know  your  name  ?  " 

"  Pamela  Yeoland,  Miss  Yeoland." 

He  laughed.     "  Ah,  yes,  Miss,  of  course.     I  knew  that." 

"  Did  you?  "  asked  Pam,  bluntly;  "  how?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  An  atmosphere,  perhaps,  an  aura. 
You  know  the  Duchess  of  Wight  well  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  know  her  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  the  first  time  I  saw  you  you  had  just  come  from 
her  house." 

"  Do  you  know  her?  " 

"  I  was  on  my  way  to  lunch  with  her  that  day,"  he  ex- 
plained, adding,  patiently,  "  Do  you  know  her  well?  " 

"  No, — yes.  That  is,  I  very  rarely  see  her, — as  I  daresay 
she  told  you." 

Neither  of  them  noticed  that  she  was  assuming  an  interest 
in  her  on  his  part,  but  he  answered  emphatically,  raising  his 


PAM    DECIDES  69 

almost  invisible  eyebrows  in  delicate  protestation,  "  I  asked 
the  Duchess  nothing.     I  did  not  mention  you  to  her." 

"  There  would  have  been  no  harm,  surely,  if  you  had.  It 
would  have  been  quite  natural,  if — if  you  wanted  to  know 
my  name." 

"  I  did ;  but  I  preferred  that  you  should  tell  me  yourself." 

"  How  did  you  know," — they  had  turned  and  were  going 
slowly  back  towards  Old  Dean's  Yard,  and  she  finished  her 
question  in  silence. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  knew.    You  mean  how  did  I  know  that  we 
should  meet  ?  "    Leaning  towards  her,  so  near  that  his  face 
almost  touched  hers,  he  smiled.     "  I  was  sure.     And  I  was, 
right,  as  you  see.    Didn't  you  know?  "  he  added,  naively. 

She  laughed.  "  No.  But  I  remembered  you,  and  recog- 
nised you  at  once,  that  day  at  Cornwall's." 

"  Yes.  London  is  small,"  pursued  M.  de  Lensky,  as  he 
followed  her,  to  the  open-mouthed  astonishment  of  Officer 
Brown,  into  the  Yard. 

"Small!" 

"  Yes.  We  others, — nous  autres, — we  go  always  to  the 
same  places,  and  meet  always,  sooner  or  later." 

Pam  burst  out  laughing,  as  they  walked  towards  the  dooi 
leading  into  the  Broad  Sanctuary. 

"  But  I  am  not  one  of  '  vous  autres'"  she  declared ;  "  1 
am  very  poor,  and  live  quite  beyond  the  pale,  and  know  no 
one." 

;t  Except  the  Duchess  of  Wight,"  he  amended,  walking 
sideways,  the  better  to  see  her. 

"  Except  the  Duchess  of  Wight.    And  I  hadn't  seen  her, 


70  PAM    DECIDES 

until  that  day,  for  years.  And  I  shall  probably  not  see  her 
again  for  ages!  " 

"  That  is  of  course  just  as  you  choose,  Miss  Yeoland." 

They  had  reached  the  gate,  and  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"  You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you  ?  " 

There  was  in  his  perfect  manner  not  one  trace  of  con- 
sciousness that  their  relations  were  unusual,  or  that  his 
request  might  possibly  be  refused,  and  after  a  barely  per- 
ceptible hesitation  she  answered  in  the  same  way.  "Yes,  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you  come.  43  Huntley  Street, 
Russell  Square.  Can  you  remember  ?" 

From  his  pocket  he  produced  a  small  leather  book,  with 
his  initials  and  a  small  coronet  on  it  in  gold,  and  wrote 
down  the  address  in  the  most  minute  and  accurate  of  hands. 

"  At  what  time  shall  I  be  most  likely  to  find  you  at 
home,"  he  asked. 

"  After  five,  almost  any  day." 

"  Then, — au  plaisir." 

Gravely  they  shook  hands  and  separated. 


CHAPTER   X 

FORTY-THREE  Huntley  Street,  Russell  Square,  was 
to  put  it  mildly,  a  very  queer  place  to  which  to  invite  a 
secretary  to  a  great  Embassy.  And  when  the  secretary  was, 
like  Jean  de  Rensky,  a  dandy,  a  man  of  habits  as  dainty  as 
those  of  some  petted  Persian  cat,  a  member  of  a  great  family 
and  an  habitue  of  that  portion  of  English  society  whose  lives 
are  the  most  luxurious  lived  by  any  people  on  this  broad 
earth,  the  queerness  of  the  place  seemed  positively  grotesque. 

The  house  was  worse  than  shabby,  for  in  its  far-off  best 
days  it  had  never  risen  to  anything  higher  than  the  cheap 
tawdry,  and  now,  in  its  decadence,  was  piteously  unpleasant, 
with  its  torn  carpets,  its  stained  walls,  its  stale  air,  and  its 
all-pervading  odour  of  food. 

On  the  ground-floor  dwelt  one  Mr.  Bingle,  who  travelled 
in  whisky,  and  as,  unfortunately,  whisky  with  lamentable 
frequency  also  travelled  in  him,  he  was  not  the  kind  of 
person  one  would  choose  to  introduce  to  an  immaculate 
young  swell. 

There  was  also  a  Mrs.  Bingle,  whose  appearance,  it  was 
to  be  hoped,  was  against  her. 

Upstairs  were  to  be  found  two  ladies  in  the  millinery-line 
in  Tottenhian  Court  Road:  Miss  Vesey,  and  Miss  Greene- 
with-an-E. 

Mrs.  Kingdom,  the  landlady,  was  no  doubt  in  possession 
of  convincing  private  information  regarding  the  morals  of 


72  PAM    DECIDES 

these  ladies,  otherwise  they  could  never  have  forced  the 
sacred  portals  of  43, — for  43  was  very  respectable, — but 
Miss  Vesey  had  highly  peroxided  hair  and  a  manner  of  sus- 
picious dignity,  and  Miss  Greene-with-an-E's  elaborately 
painted  face  was  somewhat  awful  in  its  affability.  There 
'were,  besides,  a  gentleman  who  travelled  in  hygienic  flan- 
nels, another  who  marcelled  heads  in  an  Oxford  Street  shop, 
a  girl  who  did  typewriting  for  a  firm  in  Queen  Victoria 
Street,  and  a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Hodge,  whose 
avocation  was  a  mystery. 

Now  if  Pam  had  held  herself  proudly  aloof  from  contam- 
inating contact  with  her  fellow-lodgers  they  would  not  have 
mattered  so  much,  but  it  was  not  in  her  to  hold  herself  aloof 
from  anyone,  so  she  knew  all  of  these  objectionable  people, 
and  even  a  good  deal  about  their  private  affairs. 

Mrs.  Single,  Miss  Greene-with-an-E,  and  the  gentleman 
who  travelled  in  flannels,  came  occasionally  to  her  rooms  and 
confided  their  troubles  to  her,  and  in  return  -she  had  visited 
the  two  ladies,  admired  the  photographs  on  their  mantel- 
pieces, and  guessed  the  price  of  their  new  frocks. 
(  She  had  also  been  told  by  the  mysterious  Mi.  Hodge, — a 
/gentleman  who  took  all  his  meals  out,  and  whose  shoes,  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  rest  of  his  belongings,  were  invaria- 
bly almost  new  and  beautifully  cared  for — of  his  engagement 
to  a  lady  temporarily  in  service  in  Hastings,  and  she  had 
once  had  a  very  hilarious  tea-party,  in  honour  of  the  coming 
of  Mr.  Tavistock's  three  little  boys,  who,  being  motherless, 
lived  with  an  aunt  in  Mida  Vile.  Mr.  Tavistock  was  the 
traveller  in  hygienic  flannels. 


PAM    DECIDES  73 

"You  are  as  friendly  as  a  puppy,"  Pilgrim  used  to  tell 
her  mistress,  "  and  'ow  you  can  stand  their  vulgar  ways  I 
can't  see,  when  I  think  of  your  mamma." 

And  then  Pam  would  laugh  and  remind  her  that  her 
father,  before  he  had  discovered  his  voice  and  become  Guy 
Sacheverel,  had,  as  George  Kennedy,  lived  in  a  Bloomsbury 
boarding-house,  very  contentedly. 

Thus,  things  being  what  they  were,  Pam  had  known  per- 
fectly well,  when  she  told  de  Lensky  that  he  might  come  to 
see  her,  that  he  would,  if  seen,  awaken  great  excitement  and 
curiosity  among  the  boarders,  and  that  there  was  every 
chance  of  one  of  the  young  ladies  coming  into  her  room 
during  his  visit  on  some  artless  errand,  such  as  the  loan  of 
some  bird-seed,  or  the  return  of  a  borrowed  reel  of  silk. 

As  a  rule,  of  course,  the  house  was  pretty  well  empty  until 
evening,  but  Saturday  was  coming,  and  on  that  afternoon 
Miss  Vesey  and  Miss  Greene-with-an-E  were  much  given 
to  loose-attired  repose  against  the  dissipations  of  the  evening. 
So  probably,  permission  to  call  having  been  given  to  him  on 
Wednesday,  he  would  come  on  Saturday  and  encounter  one 
or  both  of  these  ladies  as  he  came  upstairs.  Pam,  however, 
gave  this  horrid  contingency  only  the  tribute  of  a  smile. 

She  knew  he  would  come,  and  that  she  would  be  glad  to 
see  him ;  she  knew  that  she  liked  him  extremely,  and  that  he 
liked  her. 

And  these  were  the  things  that  mattered.  The  circum- 
stance of  her  living  in  a  third-rate  boarding-house  was  an 
external  detail  that  did  not  deserve  a  thought,  he  being  what 
she  instinctively  knew  that  he  was. 


74  PAM   DECIDES 

So  on  Saturday  she  expected  him,  and  when  he  did  not 
come  on  that  day,  or  the  next,  she  was  surprisingly  disap- 
pointed. Monday  passed,  and  Tuesday,  and  then,  on  Wed- 
nesday afternoon,  just  a  week  from  the  day  when  she  had 
met  him,  he  came.  She  had  quite  given  him  up,  and  was 
kneeling  by  the  fire  toasting  a  muffin  when  he  arrived. 

Black-armed  Mildred  flung  open  the  door  and  announced 
the  fascinating  stranger,  who  might  have  come  straight  from 
the  pages  of  Miss  Yeoland's  latest  story,  in  a  voice  husky 
with  excitement. 

"  'Ere's  a  gentleman,  Miss." 

And  then  in  her  agony  of  delight  she  shut  the  door  on  a 
bit  of  his  beautiful  coat-tail  and  bolted  downstairs,  leaving 
him  to  extricate  himself  as  best  he  could. 

Pam  burst  out  laughing  and  he  joined  her  quite  unem- 
barrassed as  he  opened  the  door  and  liberated  his  outraged 
garment.  Then  they  shook  hands  and  sat  down. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  come  too  soon  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  was 
very  keen  on  seeing  you  again !  " 

And  with  an  inward  blush  she  realised  that  the  time  that 
had  seemed  so  long  to  her  had  quite  naturally  seemed  to  him, 
with  his  pleasure-crowded  days,  very  short. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  she  answered.  "  Do  you 
like  muffins?" 

"  I  do.  I  was  dining  with  the  Duchess  the  other  night," 
he  went  on,  watching  her  gravely  as  she  bent  over  the  fire, 
"  and  Lady  Chesney  was  there.  I  had  not  known  before 
that  you  were  her  cousin." 

"  Our  mothers  were  sisters." 


PAM    DECIDES  75 

"  So  she  said." 

"  Have  you  known  Evelyn  long  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  for  about  a  year,  that  is.  She  is  very  beautiful,  I 
find." 

"  Yes ;  she  is  really  lovely.    Is  she — well  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very,  I  should  say.  C'est  le  plus  pur  type  Anglais. 
She  was  telling  about  the  times  when  you  were  children  in 
the  country;  about  your  monkey, — what  was  his  name?  Ah, 
yes,  Caliban;  about  the  actor  whom  you  loved;  about  your 
reciting  poetry,  and  about  your  running  away  with  your  old 
nurse " 

Pam  frowned,  as  the  door  opened,  and  Pilgrim  came  in 
with  tea. 

"  I  wish  Evelyn  wouldn't  tell  about  me,"  she  said,  impa- 
tiently. Lensky  inspected  Pilgrim  as  she  prepared  the  table 
and  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire.  "  She  was  not  talking  to  me," 
he  remarked,  as  the  old  woman  left  the  room,  with  no  signs 
of  the  violent  perturbation  into  which  his  unexpected  pres- 
ence had  thrown  her.  "  She  was  talking  to  Mr.  Peele.  I 
wish  I  could  have  seen  Peek's  wife  in  her  youth,"  he  added, 
as  she  buttered  the  muffin,  "  she  must  have  been  surpassingly 
beautiful." 

Pam  looked  up,  her  eyes  glinting  in  the  firelight,  her 
cheeks  pink. 

"  She  was  wonderful.  You  seem  to  be  very  keen  on  good 
looks." 

"  I  am.  A  beautiful  woman  is  the  most  perfect  feast  in 
the  world  for  my  eyes." 

She  made  the  tea  and  poured  it  out;  he  drank  his  slowly, 


76  PAM   DECIDES 

leaning  over  towards  her,  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  her  face,  which,  in  consideration  of  his  recent  decla- 
ration, she  wished  were  less  plain. 

"  Was  that  Pilgrim  ?  "  he  asked,  presently. 

"  Yes.  She  was  very  ill  in  the  summer,  and  I  was  so 
frightened!  If  she  had  died  I  should  have  been  altogether 
alone!" 

His  face  changed,  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak,  but  he 
said  nothing,  and  after  a  moment  rose  and  walked  to  the 
table  where  the  photographs  stood.  "  The  Duchess  men- 
tioned your  mother,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  crimson  frame. 
"  You  are  not  at  all  like  her." 

Pam  burst  out  laughing  as  Pilgrim  came  in  and  began 
clearing  away  the  tea-table.  "  I  should  think  I  was  not ! 
She  was  not  perfect,  like  Lady  Henrietta,  but — ah,  she  was 
just  exquisite.  Such  hair,  such  tender  eyes,  such  a  mouth, — 
Lady  Henrietta  took  everyone's  breath  away,  but  everyone 
fell  in  love  with  my  mother." 

"Yes;  I  understand.  I  find  you  a  little  like  your  father, 
though.  He  is  dark  ?  " 

"Yes.  But  I'm  not  really  like  him;  I'm  a  freak;  am  I 
not,  Pilly?" 

But  Pilgrim,  whose  tongue  was  very  free  indeed  before 
any  one  of  the  boarders  who  might  come  to  see  her  mistress, 
had  too  good  old  servant's  blood  in  her  not  to  recognise 
Lensky  for  what  he  was,  and  Pam's  familiar  question  met, 
to  her  amusement,  merely  with  a  prim  "  I'm  sure  I  can't 
say,  Miss  Pam,"  before  the  old  woman  left  the  room. 

"  Poor  old  Pilly! "    Pam  opened  a  window,  for  the  day 


PAM    DECIDES  77 

was  warm,  though  wet,  and  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair,  her 
glossy  hair  gleaming  against  the  flowered  chintz. 

Lensky  drew  his  chair  very  near  hers,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward so  that  his  face  was  only  a  few  inches  away,  studied 
her  with  serious  intentness.  He  was  so  near  that  she  could 
observe  tbe  delicate  texture  of  his  white  skin,  the  silky  fine- 
ness of  his  straw-coloured  hair ;  there  was  in  his  large,  smooth- 
lidded  eyes  an  expression  of  almost  angelic  sweetness  and 
simplicity. 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time  he  sat  in  silence,  looking  at 
her,  and  then,  as  she  moved  uneasily,  he  drew  back  a  little. 

"  You  will  not  mind  my  coming  so  close  to  you,"  he  said, 
gently,  "  for  I  am  so  near-sighted  that  even  with  my  glass 
I  see  very  little,  and  without  it  I  am  quite  blind!  " 

Taking  the  glass,  to  which  there  was  no  string,  from  his 
eye,  he  turned  his  gaze  on  her  again.  "  So !  Now  I  see 
nothing." 

From  the  street  below  came  a  sudden  burst  of  music, — a 
piano-organ,  jocund  and  soulless,  playing  an  elaborately 
syncopated  cake-walk. 

Pam  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  The  rain  had  ceased, 
and  a  barrow  of  yellow  flowers  seemed  to  have  caught  a  ray 
of  sun  and  held  it  fast. 

"  Is  that  your  hansom?  "  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"  Yes." 

It  had  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  not  been  in  a  hansom 

*w 

for  over  five  years;  that  she  would  like  to  put  on  a  pretty 
frock  and  go  softly  jerking  along  the  wet  street  through  the 
kindling  lights 


78  PAM    DECIDES 

Lensky  had  come  up  behind  her  and  stood  looking  down 
into  the  street,  as  she  was  doing. 

"Did  Caliban  die?  "he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  I  was  wondering, — afterwards;  when  I  got  home,  I 
mean.  Wondering  how,  if  he  did  die,  you  managed  to  bury 
him." 

Pam  turned.  "  How — kind  of  you  to  think  of  that,"  she 
cried,  as  the  music,  with  a  final  arabesque  of  glittering  notes, 
ceased.  "Well, — I  drowned  him.  I  carried  him  to  West- 
minster Bridge  and  dropped  him  in " 

The  piano-organ  was  now  playing  "  Bill  Baily,"  and  in  an 
opposite  window  an  old  man  sat  listening,  a  curly-headed 
child  on  his  knee. 

When  Lensky  had  gone,  Pam  stood  for  a  long  time  look- 
ing out  into  the  dusk. 


CHAPTER   XI 

LENSKY  came  once  more  before  March  had  moistly  melted 
into  April,  and  then,  towards  the  middle  of  the  latter 
month,  he  sent  a  big  box  of  roses,  with  a  note  explaining  that 
a  sudden  illness  of  his  mother  was  calling  him  to  Poland. 

"  It  will  console  me  to  think,"  he  wrote,  in  his  beautiful 
little  hand  that  was  so  like  Thackeray's,  "  that  you  have 
honoured  me  with  your  friendship,  and  that  when  I  come 
back  I  shall  find  you  sitting  in  your  room  so  high  above  the 
street,  just  as  I  left  you.  You  will  have  read  La  Tache 
d'Encre  and  the  other  books,  and  we  will  discuss  them,  and 
you  will  make  tea,  and  Pilgrim  will  come  in  and  out, — all 
just  as  before. 

"  You  are  English,  and  I  am  a  Pole,  yet  you  will  know 
what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  we  are  of  the  same  nationality, 
and  I  shall  always  remember  with  felicity  that  day  when, 
through  the  fog,  I  first  saw  your  face. 

"  Until  my  return,  I  hope  in  the  middle  of  May,  I  beg 
you  then  to  hold  in  kind  remembrance 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  JEAN  DE  LENSKY/' 

That  he  signed  himself,  without  permission,  in  this  way 
was,  she  told  herself,  quaintly  characteristic  of  him.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  his  feelings  for  her  were  of  an  affectionate 

79 


80  PAM    DECIDES 

nature,  and  therefore  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  use  any 
other  formula. 

For  his  absolute  truthfulness  did  not  stop  at  the  truthful- 
ness of  mere  words,  but  was  the  very  mainspring  of  his 
nature,  thus  directing  his  every  act. 

Pam  had  once  been  greatly  amused  when,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  second  visit,  Mrs.  Single  had  come  in  on  some  flimsy 
pretext,  and  on  being  civilly  received  had  sat  down  and  pro- 
ceeded to  try  to  find  out  from  Lensky  certain  things  that 
had,  since  his  first  appearance  in  the  house,  greatly  exercised 
the  minds  of  its  inhabitants. 

"  Very  pleasant  for  Miss  Yeoland  to  'ave  'er  friends  run- 
ning in  to  see  *er,"  she  began. 

Lensky  bowed. 

"  An  old  friend,  too, — as  Mrs.  Pilgrim  was  saying " 

Lensky  smiled. 

"  I  dessay  you  used  to  know  'is  late  Lordship,  the 
Earl?" 

Lensky  spoke. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

But  Mrs.  Bingle  possessed  a  considerable  amount  of  deter- 
mination, and  her  pride  forbade  her  returning  to  Miss 
Vesey's  room  unfilled  with  the  information  she  had  volun- 
teered to  get. 

"  'Ow  do  you  like  London  ?  "  she  pursued,  playing  with 
her  watch-chain.  Lensky  was  devoted  to  London,  and  said 
so,  without  adding  any  further  remarks. 

"  French,  aren't  you?  " 

Pam,  much  diverted,  refused  to  help  him  out.     There 


PAM    DECIDES  81 

was,  after  all,  no  harm  in  Mrs.  Bingle's  questions,  and  if 
he  did  not  choose  to  answer  them  he  might  evade  them  for 
himself. 

"  No,  I  am  not  French." 

"German?" 

"  No." 

Now  Mrs.  Bingle,  though  deeply  respecting  Pam's  connec- 
tion with  a  deceased  Earl,  and  given  to  vague  boastings  about 
her  intimacy  with  her  aristocratic  fellow-boarder,  knew  that 
Pam  was  very  poor,  and  lived,  for  whatever  reason  it  might 
be,  quite  cut  off  from  her  former  West-End  friends. 

So  when  Lensky  refused  to  gratify  the  good  woman's 
curiosity,  she  grew  very  angry. 

"  I  ain't  useder  being  treated  like  dirt  under  people's 
feet,"  she  exclaimed,  rising,  "  and  though  you  look  like  a 
swell,  you  can't  be  much  of  a  one  or  you  wouldn't  be  a-com- 
ing  'ere.  Them  as  put  on  airs  better  stick  to  Park  Line  and 
not  come  where  they're  not  wanted !  " 

Lensky,  foreseeing  in  her  anger  disagreeable  consequences 
for  Pam,  smiled  bewitchingly  at  the  outraged  matron,  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  she  smiled  back. 

"  Not  Ey<?-talian  ?  "  she  persisted. 

He  smiled. 

"Rooshian?" 

He  smiled. 

"Polish?" 

He  smiled. 

"Spanish?" 

He  smiled. 


82  PAM    DECIDES 

And  seeing  that  he  succeeded,  without  saying  one  word 
except  good-bye,  in  smiling  her  downstairs  in  a  state  of  per- 
fect good  humour,  could  diplomacy  have  gone  further? 

And  Pam  knew  instinctively  that  whereas  he  might  not 
always,  in  the  face  of  impertinent  questioning,  find  it  wise 
to  smile,  he  would  invariably  present  to  the  questioner  as 
impenetrable  a  front  as  he  had  to  the  indomitable  Mrs. 
Bingle,  and  come  out  of  the  engagement  without  either  hav- 
ing given  any  information  or  having  uttered  a  single  mis- 
leading word. 

Pam  enjoyed  his  flowers,  missed  him,  and,  as  he  had  asked 
her  to  do,  held  him  in  kind  remembrance. 

May  came;  a  long,  vaguely  homesick  month,  as  it  often  is 
to  the  imaginative,  and  one  afternoon,  a  week  past  the  date 
when  Lensky  had  hoped  to  return,  she  went  to  see  the 
Duchess.  The  old  lady,  whom  she  found  in  bed  with  a 
headache,  was  delighted  to  see  her. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  dear.  I  have  been  wretched 
for  weeks, — with  my  eyes,  I  am  sure,  though  they  say  I  am 
bilious.  I  have  these  headaches  continually,  and  might  as 
well  have  been  in  Timbuctoo  for  all  the  good  I've  had  of  the 
season.  How  are  you  ?  " 

Pam  sat  down  by  the  bed  and  took  off  her  hat.  It  was 
very  cool  and  pleasant  in  the  big  room,  and  the  walk  had 
been  long. 

"  I  am  well,— only  I  hate  the  Spring.  How  is  Evy?  I 
passed  her  the  other  day  in  Regent  Street,  and  thought  her 
looking  ill." 

"  Yes, — she  had  the  measles,  poor  dear,  but  she's  going 


PAM    DECIDES  83 

about  again  now.  I  was  to  dine  there  last  night,  but 
couldn't.  Have  you  seen  the  Fat  Boy  lately  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  heaven." 

"  The  last  time  I  saw  him  he  told  me  you  were  a  little 
cat,  and  he  hoped  he'd  never  see  you  as  long  as  he  lives." 

1  He  lies,"  returned  Pam,  calmly. 

The  Duchess  laughed.  "  Well,  I  hope  he  won't  take  to 
gambling  in  his  despair." 

"Gambling?" 

"Yes.  It  appears  that  he  was  taken  up  with  Willy 
Elphinstone,  the  Hetley  men,  and  that  lot.  They  all  gam- 
ble, and  as  for  Jack  Lensky,  everybody  knows  that  he'd 
stake  the  coat  on  his  back  if  he  had  nothing  else." 

"Jack  Lensky!" 

"Yes.  He's  one  of  the  Russian  Embassy  men, — an  en- 
chanting creature,  too.  I  met  him  about  a  year  ago  and  have 
bean  in  a  mild  way  very  attentive  to  him  ever  since.  Delight- 
ful !  He  has  a  way  of  whispering  a  naughty  story  and  look- 
ing too  good  for  this  world  while  he  does  it !  And  then  he's 
clever,  has  been  everywhere,  seen  everything, — and  done 
everything,  too,  no  doubt,  if  the  truth  were  known.  An 
entrancing  young  man,  in  a  word,  but  by  no  means  a  good 
friend  for  poorish  youths  with  a  taste  for  extravagant 
amusements." 

For  a  moment  Pam  was  silent.  If  she  avowed  her 
Acquaintance  with  Lensky,  not  only  would  her  old  friend's 
amazement  and  outcry  be  great,  but  Pam  would  be  for  the 
future  unjustified  in  keeping  her  way  and  place  of  living  a 
.jecret.  The  Duchess  would  with  much  logic  ask  her:  "if 


84  PAM   DECIDES 

this  young  man  comes  to  see  you,  why  can't  I  ?"  So  she  said 
nothing,  and  listened  silently  as  the  old  lady  went  on :  "  But 
he  wouldn't  hurt  you,  my  dear,  and  I  wish  you  knew  him! 
With  all  his  wildness  and  wicked  ways,  he's  such  a  gentle- 
man! Fast  Englishmen  are  so  apt  to  be  boorish,  and  this 
man  is  so — exquisite,  in  everything  he  does  and  says.  Lady 
Hoagland, — you  know,  the  pious  Lady  Hoagland,  with  the 
huge  wart  on  her  nose, — told  me  that  once  he  was  let  into 
her  house  by  mistake  when  she  was  out,  and  only  Ursula, 
the  youngest  girl,  was  at  home.  When  she,  Mary,  came  in 
she  found  him  at  the  piano,  singing  the  most  fascinating 
French  nursery  songs  to  the  child ! " 

"Oh!"  said  Pam,  absently. 

"  He  is  very  devoted,  in  his  way,  to  Evelyn,"  pursued  the 
old  lady  innocently,  "  but  he  is  also  devoted  to  Alys  Comp- 
ton  and  the  second  Hammersley  girl.  There  were  also 
tales — but  they  wouldn't  interest  you.  I  heard  one  yester- 
day," she  added,  with  a  chuckle,  "  that  I  mean  to  ask  him 
about  to-night." 

"  Oh, — he  is  in  town,  then?  " 

The  Duchess  did  not  notice  the  slip  of  the  tongue. 

"Yes;  he  has  been  in  Poland,  but  got  back  last  week. 
Oh,  Pam,  if  you  weren't  such  a  little  idiot,  you'd  dine  here 
to-night  and  meet  him !  " 

But  Pam  only  laughed,  and  shortly  afterwards  took  her 
departure. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  BREATHLESS  day  in  mid-August;  a  day  when  the 
humid  air  hung  heavy  over  the  town,  when  people  walked 
wearily,  children  cried  with  feeble  querulousness,  and  the 
backs  of  the  suffering  horses  gleamed  as  if  varnished  m  the 
pitiless  sun. 

Pam,  with  whom  funds  were  distressingly  low,  had  been 
unable  to  get  out  of  town  at  all  that  summer,  and  only  by 
the  greatest  economy  had  she  managed  to  send  Pilgrim  for 
a  fortnight's  sea-air  at  Margate,  where  a  friend  of  the  old 
servant  had  married  a  green-grocer  and  took  lodgers. 

So  for  the  last  two  weeks  Pam  had  been  entirely  alone, 
and  Pilgrim  had  returned  only  the  day  before,  much  improved 
in  health,  but  inclined  to  be  scornful  of  town  and  impatient 
of  its  August  discomforts.  Her  tales  of  the  delicious  breezes 
at  Margate,  the  moonlit  sea,  even  of  the  shrimps  she  had 
had  with  her  tea,  seemed  to  Pam  to  make  the  heat,  the  lassi- 
tude, the  hopelessness  of  London  almost  unbearable. 

The  girl  herself  was  not  well,  though  she  did  not  know  it, 
and  set  her  querulousness  and  lack  of  energy  down  to  an 
unworthy  discontent  and  idleness. 

The  sitting-room,  which  in  summer  suffered  from  the 
southern  exposure  that  was  its  boon  in  winter,  was  stiflingly 
warm,  and  Pam  sat,  with  her  blouse  open  at  the  throat,  at 
the  window,  while  Pilgrim,  without  any  front  hair,  dis- 
coursed about  Margate. 

85 


86  PAM   DECIDES 

"  I  used  to  'ave  to  close  my  window  by  six,"  she  said, 
proudly;  "  it  got  so  cool." 

"Did  you,  Pilly?     How  nice." 

"  And  we  used  to  'ave  bits  of  ice  on  the  tomatoes.  'El 
brother  is  a  butcher." 

"  How— nice." 

"And  never  no  smell  of  cooking!"  continued  the  old 
woman,  with  a  curious  expression  of  triumph.  "  Never!  " 

Pam  pushed  her  damp  hair  wearily  back  from  her 
face. 

"  Mrs.  Kingdom  can't  be  frying  meat  at  this  time  of  day," 
she  remarked,  "  but  it  certainly  smells  like  it." 

"  Every  evening  at  six  I  'ad  to  shut  my  windows," — began 
Pilgrim,  over  again,  and  Pam  lost  patience. 

"  I  wish  you'd  shut  your oh,  Pilly ;  don't  talk  about 

it,"  she  cried,  nervously;  "I  can't  bear  it.  I'm  positively 
sick  with  the  heat." 

"  Of  course  you  are,  you  poor  child, — but  what  do  you 
think  of  me,  fresh  from  them  sea-breezes " 

Pam  rose.  "  I'm  going  out,"  she  declared,  fastening  her 
collar;  "  it  can't  be  worse  than  this.  I'll  go  to  the  Abbey 
and  sit  in  the  darkest  corner  I  can  find." 

"  You'll  get  a  sunstroke."  Pilgrim  was  appalled,  and  all 
unwitting  of  the  fact  that  it  was  her  own  repetitive  elo- 
quence that  was  driving  her  mjstress  to  take  such  a  desperate 
step.  But  Pam  held  to  her  plan.  She  must  go  somewhere, 
she  must  be  alone,  and  she  had  not  been  to  the  Abbey  since 
May,  just  after  her  last  visit  to  the  Duchess. 

So  she  went  into  her  bedroom  and  put  on  a  very  ancient 


PAM    DECIDES  87 

but  shady  hat,  and  came  back  with  a  little  cotton  sunshade 
in  her  hand. 

Pilgrim  was  fanning  herself  with  a  newspaper  she  had 
bought  in  the  train,  her  mouth  pursed  in  ostentatious  dis- 
approval, and  a  faint  smile  stirred  the  girl's  lips  as  she  stood 
pondering  whether  she  should  or  should  not  force  gloves  on 
her  limp  fingers. 

"Good-bye,  Pilly." 

"  Good-bye,  Miss  Pam,  I'm  sure."  Then  the  old  woman 
raised  her  eyes  from  the  flabby  Daily  Mail.  "  Oh,  Pam, 
you  do  look  so  bad;  are  you  sure  you're  not  ill?  I  can  see 
the  bones  right  through  your  cheeks,  and  your  eyes  are  as  big 
as  saucers." 

"  How  dangerously  attractive  I  must  be!  Of  course  I'm 
not  ill,  you  old  goose;  it's  only  the  heat, — the  last  fortnight 
has  been — pretty  bad." 

"  And  me  away  enjoying  the  sea-br " 

"  Jane  Pilgrim,  if  you  say  the  word  '  breezes '  again  I'll 
kill  you!  Good-bye." 

And  the  old  woman,  deeply  offended,  took  up  the  paper 
and  began  to  read.  "  If  you  'adn't  been  so  foolish"  she 
remarked,  as  Pam  turned  to  the  door,  "  you  could  have  gone 
yourself.  It  would  be  just  as  well,  Miss  Pam,"  she  con- 
tinued, acidly  respectful,  "  if  you  'ad  remembered  that  charity 
begins  at  'ome." 

"Oh,  Pilly,  please  don't  be  nasty  when  I  come  in!  I 
know  it's  only  because  I  look  pale,  but — I'm  perfectly 
well." 

Pam  stood  in  the  doorway,  her  brows  knit  beseechingly. 


88  PAM   DECIDES 

Pilgrim  was  to  her  father,  mother  and  friends  all  in  one, 
but  she  grew  cantankerous  as  she  grew  older,  and  Pam  was 
very  tired. 

"  Well, — I'm  sure  I  don't  mean  to  be  cross.  Only, — 
that  woman  would  have  got  on  all  right, — they  always  do, 
and " 

"  And  the  baby  would  have  died.  Really,  Pilgrim,  I  am 
ashamed  of  you.  That  four  pounds  literally  meant  the  poor 
little  thing's  life,  and  to  me  it  would  have  meant  only  a  few 
days — where  it  is  cool.  Now,  good-bye,  dear.  It's  after 
four,  and  must  soon  get  better." 

She  turned  and  was  closing  the  door  when  a  sound,  best 
described  as  a  whoop,  recalled  her. 

"Pilly!" 

"  Pam,  listen.  'E's  back  in  town,  the  little  blind  gentle- 
man. '  Among  others  dining  at  the  Savoy  last  night  I  saw 
Lady  Ribbesford  looking  very  handsome  in  white,  the  Maha- 
rajah of  Jaipore,  Sir  William  Tarpendale,  and  M.  de  Len- 
sky  of  the  Russian  Embassy,  whose  engagement  to  a  beauti- 
ful widow  is  said  to  be  about  to  be  announced,' — and  'e 
'asn't  been  to  see  you !  "  groaned  the  old  woman.  "  Just 
like  'em  all." 

Pam  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  The  beautiful  widow  is 
probably  Evelyn,"  she  said;  "the  Duchess  told  me  he  was 
very  devoted  to  her." 

Pilgrim's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Oh!  "  she  said.  "  Even 
if  engaged,  'e  might  'ave  called!" 

Pam  came  back  and  kissed  her.  "  Don't  bother,  Pilly, 
dear;  he'll  come  some  day,  you'll  see.  You  must  remember 


PAM   DECIDES  89 

how  busy  young  men  are, — particularly  young  men  on  tb<- 
verge  of  becoming  engaged  to  beautiful  widows!  " 

Then,  at  last,  she  got  away,  and  went  out  into  the  stale 
heat.  So  Lensky  was  in  tovf  — doubtless  on  his  way  North. 
And  he  was  going  to  marry  his  plus  pur  type  Anglais. 

She  reached  the  Square,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  wall 
of  a  house,  waiting  for  the  'bus. 

He  had  not  come  to  see  her  in  May,  and  he  would  of 
course  not  come  now.  She  had  been  so  disappointed  in  May, 
for  she  had  been  sure  that  he  would  come,  and  she  should 
have  been  so  glad  to  see  him!  He  was  such  a  dear.  He 
was  so  entirely  pleasant  to  her,  with  his  quiet  voice,  his 
steadfast  eyes,  his  quaintly  precise  accent.  Even  his  perfect 
clothes  and  the  small  seal  ring  on  his  little  finger  added  to 
her  complete  satisfaction  in  him. 

The  men  she  saw  every  day  were  so  different:  Mr.  Hodge 
and  Mr.  Tavistock,  with  their  carefully  creased  trousers 
that  bulged  at  the  knees,  their  cheap  ties,  their  too  thick 
watch-chains. 

Mr.  Bingle,  whose  appearances  were  only  semi-occasional, 
was,  though  loudly  vulgar,  infinitely  better  than  his  two 
juniors,  with  their  awful  gentility. 

He  at  any  rate  was  genuine,  whereas  they  were  painfully 
bad  imitations  of  that  thing,  indefinable  and  unmistakable, 
of  which  Jack  Lensky  was  the  perfect  flower. 

If  she  had  been  living  the  life  of  other  women  of  her 
breeding,  surrounded  by  men  of  her  own  class,  Lensky's 
clothes  would  have  made  little  or  no  impression  on  her,  but 
as  things  were,  her  mind  turned,  now  that  she  believed  him  to 


9o  PAM   DECIDES 

be  lost  to  her,  again  and  again  to  the  memory  of  his  perfect 
attire;  even  the  fineness  of  his  handkerchief  and  his  silk 
socks,  the  delicate  scent  of  Russian  leather,  Russian  cigar- 
ettes, and  some  unknown  toilet-water  that  hung  about  him. 
He  was  the  one  gentleman  left  to  her,  and  now  she  had  lost 
him.  And  no  'bus  was  in  sight,  and  her  very  knees  shook 
under  her  with  heat-exhaustion. 

Perhaps  all  the  'bus-horses  had  had  sunstrokes! 

He  might  have  come  once  more.  Miss  Greene-with-an-E 
had  already  asked  why  he  never  came,  and  had  shrugged  her 
shoulders  at  Pam's  truthful  avowal  of  ignorance.  He  should 
have  not  escaped  so  easily  from  her,  she  was  thinking,  and 
at  the  moment  the  transparent  reflection  had  amused  Pam. 

Even  Mrs.  Kingdom,  the  landlady,  had  asked  Pam  why 
the  beautiful  young  gentleman  no  longer  came.  Poor  Mrs 
Kingdom,  who  was,  in  her  inexpressive  dourness,  a  mystery 
to  Pam;  for  the  woman  was  even  yet  handsome,  her  dreary 
face  still  retaining  some  faint  spark  of  the  charm  that  had 
years  ago  won  for  her  one  glimpse  of  the  joys  of  life. 

Kingdom,  a  fireman,  and  a  devout  worshipper  of  a  devil 
he  called  God,  had  been  her  refuge  when  .that  joy  had  failed 
her,  and  as  long  as  he  lived  she  had  taken  her  fading  beauty 
regularly  to  the  temple  where  his  ominous  deity  was  wor- 
shipped, and  submitted  her  will  unmurmuringly  to  his.  But 
since  he  died,  someone  had  told  Pilgrim,  she  had  sat  in 
neither  chapel  nor  church,  and  no  one  knew  what  thoughts 
crept  through  her  stifled  mind  as  she  went  about  her  work. 

And  even  this  poor  creature  had  wondered  why  Lensky 
no  longer  came  toiling  up  the  long  stairs ! 


PAM    DECIDES  91 

Pam  took  off  her  gloves.  She  could  not  bear  them.  And 
the  'bus  was  coming. 

She  would  go  inside ;  it  might  be  cooler ;  no,  she  would  go 
outside,  for  there  would  be  more  air. 

And  then,  suddenly,  there  he  was,  in  a  small  brown  vic- 
toria, poking  his  coachman  in  the  back  with  his  stick,  jumping 
out  almost  before  the  big  horse  had  stopped,  holding  her 
hand  in  his,  while  the  sun  on  his  glossy  hair  almost  dazzled 
her  eyes. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  he  cried,  "  so  glad.  I  was  just  coming  to 
see  you."  Without  in  the  least  intending  to  do  so,  horrified 
by  the  sound  of  her  own  words,  Pam  answered,  abruptly,  "  I 
don't  believe  it." 

The  next  moment  she  was  sitting  beside  him  in  the 
brown  chariot,  and  he  was  saying  to  the  coachman,  "  Go  on, 
Sampson, — to  the  address  I  gave  you " 


CHAPTER   XIII 

AS  Miss  Greene-with-an-E  met  them  on  the  stairs,  Pam  felt 
her  face  burst  into  a  glow  of  colour.  The  girl  must  have 
confessed,  had  she  been  asked  during  her  dreary  wait  for 
the  'bus,  that  it  would  have  pleased  her  vanity,  quite  apart 
from  her  pleasure  in  seeing  Lensky,  to  have  him  call  again 
at  43,  but  now  that  he  had  come  her  nerves  seemed  to  have 
regained  their  balance,  and  she  blushed  for  what  she  called 
her  snobbery. 

Miss  Greene-with-an-E  stopped  her,  on  the  pretence  of 
enquiring  for  her  health,  and  as  Lensky  waited,  shot  more 
than  one  glance  at  his  gently  blank  face,  and,  when  she  had 
released  Pam,  crossed  the  passage  and  went  into  Miss 
Vesey's  room  to  tell  her  the  news.  Pam  blushed  again,  but 
Pilgrim's  delight  in  Lensky 's  reappearance  was  so  openly 
shown  in  her  old  face  that  both  he  and  Pam  laughed,  and 
all  embarrassment  fled. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Pilgrim?"  he  said,  kindly;  "you  look 
much  better  than  when  I  last  saw  you." 

"  Yes,  m'lord ;  yes,  sir,  thank  you.  Shall  I  boil  the  kettle, 
Miss  Pam?" 

Lensky  took  off  his  gloves  and  sat  down,  looking  round 
the  room  with  a  well-pleased  air.  "  Boil  no  kettles,"  he 
said,  "  for  I  have  come  to  take  Miss  Yeoland  and  you  out 
to  dinner." 

"  To  dinner ! "  Pam  was  so  glad  to  see  him  that  her 

92 


PAM    DECIDES  93 

voice  had  a  queer  little  thrill  in  it,  and  she  felt  as  though 
her  smile  were  widening  to  a  boundless  grin.  "  People  don't 
dine  at  half-past  four,  do  they?'" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  seriously,  rubbing  his  glass  on  his 
handkerchief ;  "  but  they  drink  tea — iced  tea,  with  lemon  in 
it, — and  then  they  talk,  and  when  eight  o'clock  has  come 
they  dine.  Don't  they?" 

"They  do,  those  who  have  the  proper  clothes, — which, 
alas,  Pilgrim  and  I  have  not,  Mr.  de  Lensky!  " 

His  glass  was  back  in  its  place,  and  his  troubled  frown  at 
her  words  gave  him  an  almost  ludicrously  piteous  air. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  of  clothes,"  he  pleaded,  clasping 
his  hands ;  "  I  don't  mean  a  restaurant ;  I  knew  you  wouldn't 
do  that;  I  just  want  you  to  come  to  my  rooms  in  St.  James 
Street  for  tea  and  dinner.  I  know  Pilgrim  would  like  to, 
wouldn't  you,  Pilgrim?  It  is  cool  there,  and  there  are 
flowers " 

Even  in  her  determination  to  refuse  his  invitation,  Pam 
appreciated  the  delicacy  of  his  trying  to  tempt  poor  Pilgrim 
with  the  coolness  and  the  flowers,  instead  of  dazzling  her 
with  the  recitation  of  a  menu. 

"  We  really  can't,  Mr.  Lensky,"  the  girl  said,  firmly,  but 
smiling  in  deprecation  as  she  spoke.  "  It  is  very  kind  of  you 
to  think  of  it,  but — we  really  can't  go." 

He  bowed  his  head  in  polite  acceptance  of  her  fiat  and  she 
turned  to  ring  the  bell,  when  Pilgrim's  face  caught  her  eye. 
Quite  noiselessly,  standing  by  the  door  in  the  proper  attitude 
for  a  well-trained  servant,  Pilgrim  was  crying. 

Her  mouth  was  drawn  down  at  the  corners,  her  big  nose 


94  PAM   DECIDES 

wrinkled  and  red,  and  from  her  tightly-squeezed  eyes 
trickled  two  small  tears. 

"  Oh,  Pilly!  "  Pam  rushed  at  her,  as  the  poor  old  woman 
tried  to  leave  the  room.  "  Don't !  Don't  cry !  I  can't 
bear  it." 

But  Pilgrim  pushed  her  way  towards  the  door.  She  could 
not  stop  crying;  the  sudden  joy  and  the  bitter  disappointment 
were  too  much  for  her,  and  Pam  knew,  what  Lensky  did  not 
suspect,  that  the  sorrow  had  an  origin  deeper  than  the  obvious 
one. 

"  Oh,  Pilly,  do  you  care  so  much  ?  " 

Pam  stood  caressing  the  old  servant,  her  eyes  involuntarily 
seeking  Lensky's  in  a  mute  prayer  for  counsel. 

"  I  think,  Pilgrim,"  he  said,  quietly,  his  face  not  betraying 
the  slightest  sign  of  even  kindly  amusement  as  he  spoke, 
"  that  Miss  Yeoland  has  changed  her  mind.  And  if  you 
will  put  on  your  hat  we  might  as  well  go,  as  my  horse  dis- 
likes standing  in  the  heat." 

When  Pilgrim,  without  a  word,  had  left  the  room,  Pam 
turned  to  him,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  You  are  a  dear  to 
do  that,"  she  said,  impulsively;  "she  is  old,  and — there  are 
other  reasons  why  she  is  so  unlike  other  servants.  Some  day 
I  will  tell  you." 

"  Thanks."  He  said  no  more,  but  she  realised  that  no 
matter  whom  he  married,  no  matter  what  happened,  he  and 
she  understood  each  other  once  and  for  all. 

Pilgrim,  grilling  in  her  winter  mantle  which,  being  deco- 
rated with  beads,  she  had  put  on  to  do  honour  to  the  occa- 
sion, sat  proudly  in  the  victoria,  glancing  with  disdain  at  the 


PAM    DECIDES  95 

pedestrians  they  passed.  And  Pam,  in  a  white  blouse  and  a 
hat  with  a  red  rose  on  it,  was  happier  than  she  had  been  for 
weeks.  In  spite  of  herself  this  man's  homage  gratified  her, 
besides  which  she  greatly  liked  him,  and  she  was  to  pass  the 
next  four  or  five  hours  in  his  company. 

Lensky's  rooms,  over  the  shop  of  a  fashionable  boot-maker 
in  St.  James  Street,  were  extremely  characteristic  of  him. 

The  sitting-room,  with  its  brown-leather  chairs, — models 
of  form  and  comfort, — its  dull  green  walls,  its  valuable  and 
beautiful  etchings  and  engravings ;  the  large,  orderly  writing- 
table  with  its  Empire  fittings ;  the  fineness  of  the  embroidered 
napery  on  the  ready  tea-table ;  the  gleaming  old  samovar ;  the 
low  oak  book-shelves  laden  with  well-bound  books,  many  of 
them,  judging  from  the  small  coat-of-arms  on  their  backs, 
brought  from  Poland;  the  Bechstein  Grand  in  the  corner; 
the  exquisite  low-toned  rugs  on  the  highly-polished  floor ;  the 
Chippendale  cabinet  filled  with  old  china;  the  flat  bowls  full 
of  roses;  the  antlers  over  the  mantel-piece,  the  trophies  of 
other  kinds  of  hunting, — all  these  things  combined  to  make 
a  shell  every  convolution  of  which  was  exquisitely  fitted  to 
its  owner. 

When  he  had  seated  Pam  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fern-filled 
fireplace,  and  she  had  decided  for  hot  tea,  and  Pilgrim  had 
removed  her  mantle  and  discreetly  disappeared  behind  a 
faintly-gilded  old  leather  screen  at  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
Lensky  made  tea — deftly,  gracefully,  clashing  no  cups, 
dropping  no  spoons,  his  slim  hands  doing  their  work  better 
than  do  those  of  most  women. 

And  when  the  samovar  was  singing  its  Russian  folksong 


96  PAM   DECIDES 

he  looked  up  and  asked  the  girl,  with  the  most  radiant  of 
smiles,  to  take  off  her  hat.  "  Even  here  it  is  warm,"  he 
added.  She  did  as  he  suggested.  "  Have  you  always  roses 
here?" 

"  No.  Only  when  I  have  ladies  coming  to  see  me.  The 
last  time  it  was  the  Duchess  of  Wight  and  your  beautiful 
cousin." 

"  I  hear  you  are  going  to  marry  my  beautiful  cousin." 

He  set  down  the  tea-caddy.    "  Who  told  you  that?  " 

"The  British  Press!     Is  it  not  true?" 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  then,  again  opening  the 
tea-caddy,  he  answered,  "  No,  it  is  not  true." 

"  I  am  rather  glad,"  commented  Pam,  absently,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  and  enjoying  the  scent  of  some  crimson 
roses  near  her. 

"Why  are  you  glad?" 

"  Because, — well, — Evy's  not  the  wife  for  you."  She 
seemed  to  know  him  so  well  that  her  remark  appeared  to  her 
a  quite  natural  one. 

He  laughed.  "  Look  at  the  portrait  behind  you,  Miss 
Yeoland."  The  portrait,  a  small  one  in  pastel,  represented 
a  young  woman  in  voluminous  pink  satin  skirts.  On  her 
smooth  yellow  head  rested,  delicately,  as  if  about  to  fly  away, 
a  wreath  of  pink  roses,  and  under  the  roses  smiled  sweetly 
down  at  the  English  girl,  Lensky's  face. 

"  How  much  you  look  like  her!  " 

"Yes;  it  is  really  rather  absurd,  isn't  it?  Alas,  it  is  no 
longer  so  strong,  the  resemblance,  for  she  is  old,  ma  mere, 
and  ill.  I  nearly  lost  her  in  May." 


PAM    DECIDES  97 

"  Does  she  never  come  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  returned,  pouring  out  the  steaming  tea,  "  it 
was  Paris  that  she  loved.  I  was  born  in  Paris,  and  my  sister, 
who  is  dead.  London  she  says  is  foggy  and  cold." 

"  She  couldn't  call  it  cold  to-day!  " 

"  No,  that  she  couldn't.  But  she  has  had  much  trouble ; 
too  much,  even  for  a  woman,"  he  went  on  gravely,  as  he 
brought  her  tea  to  her,  "  and  she  no  longer  leaves  home." 

"  She  must  miss  you  very  much,"  remarked  Pam,  when 
Pilgrim  had  been  given  tea  and  cakes,  which  she  insisted 
on  consuming  in  the  next  room.  It  seemed  to  the  girl  that 
if  this  dear  youth  had  been  her  son  she  could  not  have  borne 
parting  with  him. 

"  She  does.  And  she  is  like  you;  she  thinks  of  a  suitable 
wife  for  me.  She  wants  me  to  marry  and  settle  down  in 
the  old  house." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?" 

He  set  down  his  cup,  and  drew  his  chair  near  hers. 

"  It  is  what  she  asked  me, — in  May.  And  I  told  her  I 
could  not  marry  until  I  loved.  And  she  said, '  Est-ce  bun  pos- 
sible, mon  petit,  que  tu  n  dimes  personnel  '  Et  je  lui  repondis 
'  Oui,  ma  mere,  cest  qa.  C'est  que  je  naime  personnel JJ 

Pam  nibbled  at  a  bit  of  almond.  "  It  seems  a  great  pity," 
she  observed,  "  for  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  her.  Only  how 
would  you  like  living  in  the  country?  " 

"  I  could  never  do  that.  The  country  bores  me  to  death. 
After  a  month  of  it  I  can  stand  no  more." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  see  me  when  you  came  back 
in  May?" 


98  PAM   DECIDES 

He  rose  and  rang  the  bell.  Then  he  opened  the  window 
and  they  stood  looking  out,  while  his  servant  cleared  away 
the  tea-things. 

"  I  was  in  town  only  a  fortnight,  and  I  was  very  busy." 
Not  a  word  of  excuse,  not  even  an  expression  of  regret! 
She  laughed.  "  I  missed  you,"  she  said  pathetically.  "  It 
was  horrid  of  you." 

"  I  am  sorry, — but  what  does  it  matter  now  ?  Gregoire !  " 
He  turned  and  the  servant  came  towards  him. 

"  Miss  Yeoland  and  her  maid  will  dine  with  me,  Gregoire. 
Do  you  like  cold  consomme,  Miss  Yeoland?  And  an  aspic? 
Cold  consomme,  then,  Gregoire — and  game  and  salad,  and 
ices.  At  eight." 

"  Bien,  M'sieu'."  The  servant  left  the  room  and  Lensky 
turned  to  Pam. 

"  I  very  often  have  little  dinners  brought  in.  Lady 
Hoagland  and  her  youngest  and  prettiest  girl  came  just  be- 
fore I  left  town  in  June.  I  like  them  so  much." 

"So  the  Duchess  told  me!  But  then,  you  like  so  many 
people,  don't  you  ?  "  Pam's  eyes  danced.  "  I  am  greatly 
grieved  by  the  bad  account  the  Duchess  gave  me  of  you !  " 

"Were  you?     Such  as?" 

His  eyes,  so  innocent-looking,  were  fixed  on  hers  in  serene 
questioning. 

"  I  really  couldn't  tell  you." 

"  You  mean — cards?  " 

"  Yes.    Are  you  really  such  a  gambler?  " 

Still  he  did  not  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "  I 
am.  Do  you  like  music?  I  will  play  t<"  you." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

SHE  did  not  see  him  again  for  months.  The  next  day 
he  left  home,  going  to  Scotland  and  later  for  a  yachting-cruise 
with  some  people  named  Compton,  of  whom  Pam  had  heard 
the  Duchess  speak.  Pam  missed  him  abjectly. 

He  did  not  write,  consequently  she  knew  nothing  of  his 
movements,  and  his  silence  awoke  in  her  something  very 
like  resentment. 

During  September,  which  luckily  was  a  rather  cool 
month,  she  wrote  a  new  novelette  and  tried  her  hand  at  some 
short  stories,  which  she  sent  to  the  best  magazines,  the  editors 
of  which  politely  returned  them. 

Then  she  tried  writing  a  serious  novel,  broke  down  in  the 
middle  because  she  could  not  think  of  anything  to  make  her 
characters  do,  and  burnt  the  manuscript. 

She  haunted  the  Abbey  a  good  deal  at  this  period,  and 
used  to  walk  in  St.  James  Park,  besides  resuming  her  coach- 
ing-parties on  the  'buses. 

But  in  spite  of  these  diversified  amusements,  time  dragged 
and  she  found  to  her  infinite  disgust  that  Lensky  had  become 
a  very  disturbing  element  in  her  life. 

She  had  made  a  mistake  in  going  to  see  the  Duchess,  she 
had  made  an  even  greater  one  in  admitting  this  wanderer 
from  her  former  world  to  her  intimacy,  for  philosopher  as 
she  believed  herself,  and  as  she  indeed  to  a  certain  extent  was, 
her  own  life,  since  her  brief  glimpse  at  the  luxuries  she  could 

99 


ioo  PAM   DECIDES 

no  longer  have,  had  grown  to  be  harder  to  bear  and  to 
seem  more  sordid  than  ever. 

It  disgusted  her  to  find  herself  longing  for  leather  easy- 
chairs  and  mossy  carpets,  and  she  sincerely  despised  her- 
self for  feeling  that  a  chop  can  be  more  than  a  chop  if  eaten 
s>n  a  porcelain  plate,  but  nevertheless  the  longing  and  the 
feeling  were  indisputable,  and  not  to  be  ignored. 

And  being  as  she  was,  more  than  half  ill,  and  very  nervous, 
there  were  times  when  her  courage  nearly  gave  way,  and 
life  seemed  unfairly  hard  on  her. 

And  Lensky  did  not  write.  He  was  of  course  amusing 
himself  on  his  round  of  visits,  eating  all  his  chops  off  porce- 
lain in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and  of  course  he  was  busy. 
But  she  no  longer  suspected  him  of  forgetting  her.  She 
knew  he  had  not  done  that,  and  that  he  never  would,  but 
with  a  sort  of  self-pity  quite  new  to  her,  she  felt  that  he  might 
have  realised  how  lonely  she  was,  and  written  to  cheer  her. 

Often  she  recalled  the  afternoon  and  evening  spent  in  his 
rooms,  hours  long  in  the  pleasure  they  held,  short  in  their 
passing!  How  they  had  enjoyed  the  delicious  little  dinner 
near  the  balcony- window,  how  pleasant  had  been  to  her 
unaccustomed  fingers  the  very  feeling  of  the  linen  and  the 
silver.  How  like  two  children  they  had  laughed  and  talked. 

There  was,  in  the  girl's  never-to-be-forgotten  memories, 
that  of  another  tete-a-tete  meal, — a  far-off  supper  in  a  far- 
off  southern  garden  where  nightingales  sang  and  stone-pines 
stood  black  against  a  moonlit  sea. 

But  it  had  been  in  Arcadia,  that  other  meal,  eaten,  or 
rather  neglected,  when  she  was  not  yet  twenty,  and  the  man 


FAM   DECIDES  101 

opposite  had  been  the  wonderful  faery  knight  of  the  inef- 
faceable memory,  whereas  the  dinner  at  Lensky's  had  taken 
place,  for  all  its  delights,  in  Everyday  land,  and  Lensky 
himself  no  Arcadian  Prince,  but  a  charming  friend  and 
comrade. 

The  Arcadian  supper  had  dimmed  with  time  and  looked 
to  her  memory's  eye  as  if  seen  in  a  soap-bubble,  iridescent  and 
fleeting,  but  it  was  as  undying  as  are  certain  pictures  even 
when  the  beautiful  blues  and  greens  have  faded;  there  was 
no  magic  about  the  St.  James'  Street  dinner,  but  she  clung 
to  the  reality  and  warmth  of  her  new  experience,  and  often 
recalled  the  incidents  of  the  evening. 

After  dinner  Lensky  had  again  played  to  her. 

He  had  the  soul,  if  not  the  fingers,  of  an  artist,  and  his 
piano  sobbed  and  sang  at  his  touch  in  a  way  that  the  girl, 
unmusical  as  she  was,  hardly  appreciated. 

Scraps  of  Chopin  he  played,  and  modern  French  songs — 
Faure,  Hahn,  and  Cesar  Franck;  a  stately  old  contre-danse 
of  Lalli's,  some  ancient  Spanish  chorals,  a  Pastorale  of 
Scarletti,  bits  of  La  Boheme  and  Aida,  longer  passages  of 
Grieg,  Sinding,  Beethoven,  and  Schumann, — all  played  with 
a  kind  of  loving  respect  if  without  great  technical  skill.  His 
fine  profile  clear-cut  against  a  dark  curtain,  his  head  slightly 
thrown  back,  he  sat  like  a  young  monk  Pam  had  once  seen 
in  a  picture,  and  the  girl  smiled  as  she  recalled  the  Duchess's 
remark, — that  he  would  gamble  away  the  coat  on  his  back 
if  he  had  nothing  else  to  stake. 

"You  like  music?"  he  asked  her  once,  without  stopping 
playing. 


102  PAM   DECIDES 

"  I  like  yours."  And  he  had  apparently  understood. 
When  her  new  novelette  "  Dorothy's  Destiny  "  was  paid  for, 
Pam  went  to  a  print-shop  in  Holborn  and  rummaged  about 
until  she  found  the  picture  of  the  young  monk  at  the  organ. 
It  was  a  cheap  reproduction,  and  she  bought  it,  to  the  great 
mystification  of  Pilgrim,  whose  admiration  was  concentrated 
on  the  scantily  attired  inspiring  angels  entwined  among  the 
organ  pipes.  This  picture  she  had  framed  and  hung  on  the 
wall  in  her  sitting-room. 

Sometimes  Pilgrim,  who  had  enquired  as  to  the  veracity 
of  the  report  about  Lensky's  engagement,  and  whose  delight 
on  learning  that  it  was  false  was  amusingly  apparent,  would 
lead  the  conversation  round  by  some  cunning  detour  to  the 
subject  of  Lensky,  and  Pam  who  knew  that  in  her  old  nurse's 
mind  she  herself  was  already  Madame  de  Lensky,  living  in 
that  brown-leather  paradise  over  the  bootmaker's,  played  up 
to  her  with  an  innocent  face. 

"  A  lovely  young  gentleman,"  Pilgrim  began  once,  "  and 
'as  such  beautiful  manners.  If  I  was  a  Spanish  Hinfanta  'e 
couldn't  have  been  more  courcheous  to  me." 

And  even  when  nearly  three  months  had  passed  without 
bringing  any  news  from  the  courteous  one,  Pilgrim  kept 
up  her  courage. 

"  Remember  how  it  was  before,"  she  told  herself, 
though  she  believed  herself  to  be  telling  Pam.  "  Some  day 
'e  11  just  come  in,  as  smooth  as  cream,  and  explain  all 
about  it." 

Late  in  October  Pam  caught  her  heel  in  a  hole  in  the 
stair-carpet,  and  twisting  her  ankle  badly,  was  obliged  to 


PAM    DECIDES  -103 

submit  to  be  carried  upstairs  by  the  gallant  Mr.  Tavistock, 
and  for  three  weeks  could  not  leave  her  room. 

During  her  term  of  imprisonment,  Pilgrim,  forgetting  hei 
crotchets  and  the  uncomfortable  ways  that  had  grown  as 
she  grew  older,  became  again  by  a  miracle  of  love  the  tender, 
patient  nurse  who  had  mothered  the  lonely  child  so  many 
years,  and  to  whom  she  had  stuck,  as  the  saying  goes,  through 
so  little  of  thick,  and  so  much  of  thin. 

And  Pam,  consoled  by  this  sudden  change,  her  nerves  no 
longer  racked  by  the  old  woman's  fretfulness  and  unreason- 
able ill  temper,  really  enjoyed  her  little  illness. 

So  when  she  could  walk  again,  she  found  herself,  to  her 
surprise,  better  than  she  had  been  for  months,  as  well  as  less 
nervous. 

It  had  rained  most  of  October,  but  November  was,  though 
dark,  fairly  dry. 

One  day,  towards  the  middle  of  the  month,  Pam  set  out 
to  pay  a  visit  in  Seven  Dials.  The  woman  to  whom  she  had 
given  the  five  pounds  that  cost  her  her  holiday  in  the  summer, 
had  just  presented  her  sovereign  with  another  patriot  and  the 
glad  news  having  been  conveyed  to  Pam  by  a  ricketty  mes- 
senger of  eight,  the  girl  was  obliged  to  go  and  see  the  new- 
comer, and  to  condole  with  the  reluctant  mother. 

After  a  stifling  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  Coptic  Street 
cellar,  during  which  the  baby  had  shrieked  loudly  and  refused 
to  be  comforted,  even  by  a  bit  of  banana  administered  to  it 
by  a  stolid  elder  sister,  Pam  went  back  Shaftesbury  Avenue, 
past  the  Baptist  Church,  and  along  the  High  Street. 

Within  the  brown  railings  of  St.  Giles'  Church  the  grass 


io4  PAM   DECIDES 

and  the  dishevelled  shrubs  were  still  green,  and  behind  the 
church  there  was,  she  knew,  an  open  space  in  which  the 
air  ought  to  be  better  than  elsewhere  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  a  bench  on  which  she  might  sit. 

Limping  rather  badly  by  this  time,  for  she  was  tired,  she 
went  up  the  steps  into  the  churchyard  and  was  about  to  go 
in  when  she  heard  someone  call  her  name,  and  turning,  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  Lensky. 


CHAPTER   XV 

lt  PILGRIM  told  me  you  had  come  in  this  direction,"  he 
explained,  shaking  hands  with  her,  "  but  she  didn't  know 
where,  and  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  giving  you  up  and 
going  back  to  Huntley  Street  to  wait  for  you " 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  returned,  heartily.  It  was 
good  to  feel  her  hand  in  his  again.  "  We  were  talking  about 
you  only  to-day!  Come  on  to  the  bench  there, — I've  got  a 
lame  ankle  and  must  rest." 

Their  arrival  disturbed  a  semi-intoxicated  lady  with  modest 
violets  on  her  bonnet,  who  had  come  into  that  quiet  place 
for  the  purpose  of  a  short  nap. 

"  'Ow'd  you  like  it  if  you  'adn't  'ad  a  cup  of  tea  since 
yesterday  morning  ?  "  enquired  this  lady,  who  was  apparently 
possessed  by  a  thirst  for  information  as  well  as  by  that  more 
material  one. 

Pam  looked  at  her.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  answered,  "  I 
was  sure  the  minute  I  saw  you  that  you  hadn't  had  any  tea 
since  yesterday !  " 

"Was  you  now,  Miss?" 

"  How  is  William  ?  "  pursued  the  girl. 

"William?  Whose  William?  Oh,  my  William!  Well, 
fcank  you,  Miss.  Williamshwell." 

Pam  gave  her  sixpence,  and  then  explained  her  undis- 
nplinary  act  to  Lensky  by  telling  him  that  the  poor  creature 
had  been  sober  and  comparatively  industrious  until  two  years 

IPS 


io6  PAM    DECIDES 

ago,  when  her  two  children  had  been  burned  to  death  while 
she  was  out  charing. 

"  William  is — only  her  husband  1 " 

Lensky  laughed. 

"Only  her  husband!" 

"  Well,  I  mean,  he's  an  awful  old  creature  who  always  has 
drunk,  and  the  children  were — her  children.  She'll  buy 
gin  with  that  sixpence,  I  suppose." 

"  And  you  don't  care?  " 

"  Not .  much,"  she  returned,  frankly,  "  if  it  makes 
her  forget  those  poor  little  things  being  roasted  alive. 
B'r— r— r!  "  She  shuddered.  "  But  don't  let's  talk  about 
it.  Tell  me  about  your  doings.  Did  you  have  a  good  time  in 
Scotland?" 

"  Very  excellent  indeed." 

"Where  were  you?" 

"  With  the  Hetleys,  in  Inverness,  with  the  MacKenzies, 
and  a  lot  of  others.  Scotland  is  a  ripping  place." 

His  scraps  of  slang,  so  accurately  used,  so  exquisitely 
enunciated,  always  amused  Pam.  And  he  looked  so  fresh, 
so  healthy,  the  slightest  touch  of  sunburn  on  his  delicate 
skin,  that  she  felt  an  almost  maternal  thrill  of  satisfaction 
in  the  fact  that  his  health  was  so  good. 

"And  the  yachting?" 

"Ah,  yes,  the  yachting!  I  am  such  a  lazy  little  brute 
that  of  all  things  I  love  yachting.  The  Mawvette  is  a  perfect 
little  craft,  shipshape  and  comfortable.  Do  you  like  being 
on  the  water  ?  " 

Pam  laughed.     "  I  do.     And  in  the  days  of  my  youth  I 


PAM    DECIDES  107 

could  sail  a  boat  and  row,  as  well  as  a  boy.  We  lived  a 
great  deal  on  the  Riviera  when  I  was  a  child." 

"  I  know.  Lady  Chesney  told  me.  She  was  at  the  Het- 
ley's  while  I  was  there,  and  she  talked  about  you." 

"  Then  you  must  have  made  her,"  declared  Pam,  uncere- 
moniously. "  She  hasn't  seen  me  for  ages,  and  I  don't 
believe  she  thinks  of  me  more  than  once  in  a  year ;  I  am  sure 
I  don't  of  her." 

"  She  is  very  handsome,"  he  explained,  unruffled,  "  so 
I  talk  a  great  deal  to  her.  But  she  does  not  know  that  I 
know  you,  and  when  she  talks  about  you  it  is  in  connection 
with  her  own  childhood." 

Pam  glanced  at  him.  "  Oh, — she  talks  to  you  about  her 
own  childhood,  does  she?  She  never  had  a  real  one,  poor 
Evy;  she  was  always  grown-up  inside,  but  I  suppose  she 
doesn't  know  that." 

"You  don't  like  her,  then?" 

She  hesitated.  "  No,  I  don't,  particularly,"  she  answered 
truthfully,  wondering  if  he  would  be  mannish  enough  to 
think  that  her  avowal  betrayed  a  jealousy  of  her  cousin's 
beauty. 

Evidently,  however,  he  understood. 

"  I  daresay  she  bores  you,"  he  commented,  poking  the  scant 
gravel  with  his  stick.  "  She  would  bore  me  if  she  were  not 
so  beautiful." 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  mother,  ten  years  ago. 
Only  you  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  her!  That's  one 
reason  why  I  never  particularly  admired  Evy,  I  suppose; 
because  she  is  a  sort  of  bad  copy  of  Mother." 


io8  PAM    DECIDES 

"  So  the  Duchess  told  me.  The  Peeles  were  at  the  Mao 
Kenzies,  by  the  way.  They  are  going  to  make  him  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Duchy  of — I  forget  what." 

"No!" 

"  Yes.    They  were  all  talking  about  it." 

Pam  flushed.  "  I  am  glad,"  she  cried,  "  Lady  Henny  will 
be  delighted." 

"  I  don?t  think  she  was,  though.  I  suspect  Lady  Henrietta 
of  great  ambition  for  her  husband,"  answered  Lensky, 
thoughtfully,  "  and  this  will  be  being  a  minister  without  a 
department,  and — with  a  very  good  income." 

"  A  sinecure,  then  ?  " 

Lensky  laughed.  "  Heaven  forbid.  There  are  no  sine- 
cures in  this  free  land.  But, — I  fancy  she  wants  him  to  go 
down  into  the  arena  and  fight,  and  the  Chancellor  of  Chose 
will  do  no  fighting.  However,  it's  a  very  good  position " 

She  frowned,  drawing  her  thick  brows  nearly  together. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  she  said,  softly,  "  he  was  born  for  big 
battles;  I  knew  him  years  ago  and  I  think  he  was  the  most 
ambitious  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  Then, — his  health 
gave  way.  It  is  a  great  pity." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  after  which  with  a  slight  effort, 
she  asked  briskly,  "  And  how  is  the  fair  Lady  Alys?  " 

"  Lovelier  than  ever,  in  spite  of  a  sunburnt  nose.  Ah, 
people  may  say  what  they  like,  but  there  are  no  women  in 
the  world  like  Englishwomen!  Other  countries  are  nicer 
than  your  foggy  island,  but  the  people, — men  and  women,— 
are  wonderful.  Awf — fully  jolly  1 " 

"  Bravo,  Lamartine." 


PAM    DECIDES  109 

He  looked  puzzled.     "  Lamartine?  " 

"  Yes.  You  look  exactly  like  him, — in  profile.  I  called 
you  Lamartine  until — I  knew  you !  " 

She  rose  as  she  finished  speaking.  "  It  is  getting  late ; 
will  you  go  back  with  me  ?  " 

He  hesitated.      "  No, — I    cannot   do   that, — I    mean   to 

say "     Slowly  they  walked  towards  the  gate,   and   as 

they  reached  the  big  square  tomb  of  Richard  Pendrell,  he 
stopped. 

"  Miss  Yeoland,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I  love  you.  Will 
you  marry  me?" 

For  a  moment,  in  her  overwhelming  amazement,  she  stared 
at  him  in  stupid  silence.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  stood 
before  her,  bareheaded,  something  indescribably  chivalrous 
in  his  attitude. 

"  You — you  cant  love  me,"  she  stammered. 

"  I  do.  At  first,"  he  went  on  deliberately,  "  I  did  not 
know  what  it  was.  And  then,  the  evening  you  and  Pilgrim 
dined  with  me,  I  understood." 

'  The  preserver  of  the  Life  of  King  Charles  the  Second  ' 
— horrid  little  wretch  "  she  read  on  the  tomb  and  reflected, 
before  she  could  answer.  Then  she  said  slowly,  "  I  am — 
sorry,  so  very  sorry,  but — I  do  not  love  you." 

"  I  know  that,"  he  answered,  "  of  course  you  do  not ;  but 
you  would  later.  I  should  be  very  good  to  you." 

"  No,  no — I  never  could.  And, — oh,  I  don't  see  how 
you  &ui !  I  am  so  ugly !  " 

"  I  admire  beauty,  but  I  love  you,"  he  answered  gravely. 
**  Will  you  marry  me?  " 


no  PAM   DECIDES 

"  Mr.  de  Lensky,  I  cannot.  Please  believe  me  at  once. 
I  am  very  fond  of  you,  indeed  I  am,  but  I  cannot  marry  you." 
Her  voice  in  its  painful  sincerity  was  almost  piteous. 

"  Do  you  love  someone  else?  " 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  wet  eyes.  "  No.  Not  now. 
But  I  did  once,  and — I  can  never  forget  him.  And  I  shall 
never  marry." 

After  a  long  pause  Lensky  laid  his  hat  and  stick  on  tht 
tomb  of  the  King's  preserver,  and  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  If  you  love  no  one  now,"  he  asked  evenly,  "  may  I  try 
again,  later?  " 

"  No,  no.  Please!  I  never  could,  never  in  the  world. 
But,  oh,  please,"  she  added  gripping  his  hands  hard,  "  please 
keep  on  being  my  friend." 

He  kissed  her  grimy  gloves  as  though  they  had  been  those 
of  his  sovereign,  and  then  gently  dropped  her  hands. 

"I  am  always  your  friend,"  he  said,  simply,  "always; 
and  I  shall  come  to  tea,  if  I  may,  on  Monday." 

The  serene  beauty  of  his  face  had  never  struck  her  so 
forcibly  as  it  did  at  this  moment,  as,  after  a  formal  bow  he 
hurried  to  his  hansom  and  left  her  standing  in  the  dusk,  by 
the  old  tomb. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN  she  had  reached  No.  43  and  toiled  up  the  dark 
stairs,  the  door  was  opened  by  a  little  old  man  who,  when  he 
saw  her,  nearly  burst  into  tears,  and  whom  she  promptly 
and  warmly  embraced. 

"Cazzy!  My  dear  old  Cazzy!  I  never  was  so  glad 
to  see  anyone  in  my  life.  What  are  you  doing  in  this  wicked 
metropolis,  and  how  long  are  you  going  to  stay?  Tea, 
Pilly,  much  tea,  and  ortolans  and  pistachio-nuts, — let's  be 
extravagant  and  send  Mildred  out  for  a  shilling  seed-cake !  " 

Pam  flung  her  hat  and  jacket  on  to  the  sofa  and  still 
chattering  with  delight,  attacked  the  fire,  whose  subdued 
glow  was  altogether  unworthy  of  so  great  an  occasion.  The 
old  man  wiped  his  eyes  as  he  watched  her. 

"My  dear  Miss  Pam, — have  you  not  been  well?  You 
look  thinner  than  the  last  time  I  saw  you, — and  pale " 

She  laughed.  "  Older,  Cazzy,  that's  all !  Age,  and 
Pilly's  ways  of  going  on.  I  shall  be  twenty-eight  two  weeks 
from  yesterday,  and  the  bloom  of  youth  has  departed.  Oh, 
it  is  nice  to  see  you  again !  " 

Old  Cazalet,  for  many  years  her  grandfather's  steward, 
and  now  serving,  in  the  same  capacity,  the  present  Earl, 
sat  by  the  fire,  nursing  a  gouty  foot  and  watching  the  girl's 
every  movement  with  the  pathetic  delight  of  the  old  in  the 
young. 

"  How's  Mrs.  Hamp  ?  And  Mary  Rud  ?  And  have  any 

ITI 


ii2  PAM   DECIDES 

more  horrible  improvements  been  made  to  the  old  house? 
And  was  the  ruin  kept  in  order,  and  Grandfather's  tablet 
bright?" 

The  old  man  blew  his  nose  again  and  again  in  the  emo- 
tions engendered  by  her  faithful  memories. 

At  last  Mildred  brought  the  cake,  and  tea  was  made,  and 
Pam  had  stopped  bombarding  him  with  questions. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Pam,  how  well  I  remember  the  day  you  came 
to  Monks'  Yeoland!  His  Lordship  was  in  his  wheel-chair 
on  the  terrace,  and  I  pointed  him  out  to  you  and  then  stood 
and  watched  you  go  up  to  him,  your  monkey  in  your  little 
arms!  And  he  loved  you  at  first  sight,  just  as  I — just  as  I 
had  known  he  would." 

She  nodded.  "  Yes.  We  understood  each  other  at  once. 
And  understanding  is  so  much  rarer  than  loving,  Cazzy. 
And  to  think  that  if  you  had  not  come  to  the  Villa  to  look 
up  Mother,  that  time,  I  should  never  have  known  my  G.F. !  " 

The  old  man  beamed.  "  Yes ;  I  have  always  been  glad 
of  that.  Ah,  the  Villa!  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacheverel  so  happy, 
— and  oh,  how  beautiful  she  was!  Do  you  remember  the 
picnic  ?  And  Madame  Ravoglia  ?  " 

"Don't  I  remember,  poor  old  Cazzy,  and  how  I  scandalised 
you  by  reciting  some  poetry, — and  then  you  made  up  your 
dear  old  mind  to  tell  my  grandfather  about  me,  and — to 
persuade  him  to  send  for  me How  are  the  Cunning- 
hams, Cazzy  ?  " 

"  The  Rector  died  last  July,  and  Mrs.  Cunningham,  poor 
lady,  went  away,  I  don't  know  where.  The  new  Rector 
is  quite  young,  and  is  named  Blood.  Such  an  unpleasant 


PAM    DECIDES  113 

name,  I  always  think.  Have  you  news  of  Lady  Chesney,  and 
of  Mr.  Ratty?" 

"  Lady  Chesney  is  much  admired,  I  hear, — and  very  well. 
Ratty  is  also  very  well,  though  I  doubt,"  she  added,  laugh- 
ing, "  if  he  is  much  admired.  What  a  pudding  of  a  boy  he 
was,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

But  Cazalet  was  not  listening.  He  sat  staring  into  the 
fire,  an  excited  smile  on  his  big  mouth. 

"What's  the  matter,  Cazzy?  You  have  something  on 
your  mind !  " 

He  gave  a  little  jump.  "  No,  no.  Nothing  at  all.  What 
should  I  have  on  my  mind  ?  " 

Pilly  had  gone  out  with  the  tea-tray,  so  they  were  alone, 
and  Pam,  after  a  solemn  stare  at  him,  burst  out,  "  Cazzy,  I 
believe  you've  come  up  to  town  to  be  married!  You  show 
every  sign  of  a  young  man  about  to  commit  matrimony !  " 

"  Me !  Oh,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  protested,  flushing 
vividly,  and  then  when  she  burst  out  laughing  he  joined  her, 
rubbing  his  wrinkled  old  hands  together  in  delight.  After 
a  while,  when  they  had  discussed  Pam's  latest  story,  (the 
old  man  read  them  all,  and  was  vastly  proud  of  her  literary 
genius),  he  asked  her  suddenly,  "Miss  Pam, — have  you 
plenty  of  money?  " 

"  Why,  Cazzy,  what  a  silly  question !  As  if  anyone  ever 
had  plenty  of  money.  Of  course  I  haven't." 

"  No,  but — I  mean,"  he  pursued  with  a  lack  of  tact  un- 
usual to  him,  "  have  you  quite  enough  for  the  coming  winter? 
Enough  to  buy  yourself  new  clothes?  Hats  with  feathers, 
and  velvet  cloaks  I' 


2i4  PAM    DECIDES 

"Cazzy!"  She  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  seriously 
wondering  if  he  were  going  out  of  his  mind.  ' '  Hats  with 
feathers,  and  velvet  cloaks,  ' 

The  old  man  rose  excitedly,  wringing  his  hands  together. 
"  Yes,  and  gold  shoes,  and  silk  petticoats,  and  while  gloves, 
and  scents,"  he  continued.  "  Oh,  Pam,  have  you  enough  for 
these  things?  " 

Pam  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  You  are  positively 
lyrical,  dear  old  man,"  she  said  gently,  "  but  you  must  not 
get  so  excited.  No, — I  certainly  have  not  money  enough  to 
buy  gold  shoes,  whatever  they  may  be,  but  I  have  a  roof 
over  my  head,  and  enough  to  eat,  and — I  am  contented.  But 
what  is  the  matter?"  she  cried,  now  really  alarmed.  For 
from  his  coat-tail  pocket  he  had  produced  a  pair  of  diminutive 
gilt-leather  slippers  with  preposterously  high  heels,  and 
pressed  them  into  her  hands. 

"  Put  them  on,"  he  gasped,  "  I  bought  them  on  my  way. 
Put  them  on." 

Sitting  down  she  took  off  her  right  shoe,  and  squeezing 
her  toes  into  the  slipper,  held  up  her  foot.  "  They  are  much 
too  small,  you  see,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "  but  I  shall  always 
keep  them " 

Tears  streaming  down  his  face  he  was  clawing  and  tearing 
at  his  tightly-buttoned  old  best  black  coat. 

"  It's  there,  it's  all  there,"  he  sobbed,  handing  her  a  large 

sealed  letter,  "  the  hats  and  the  petticoats  and  the  scents " 

She  took  the  letter. 

"  Will  you  please  explain  to  me  very  quietly  what  is 
wrong?  "  She  asked,  her  voice  cold. 


"•THEY  ARE  MUCH  TOO  SMALL,  YOU  SEE,'  SHE 
SAID,  SOOTHINGLY" 


PAM    DECIDES  115 

Dashing  his  shaking  hand  across  his  eyes  he  answered. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  It  is  this  :  Mr.  Burke  has  died,  leaving 
you  four  hundred  pounds  a  year  and  a  house  in  West- 
minster." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  sat  staring  silently  at  the  absurd 
little  shoe  dangling  on  her  toes.  "Charnley  Burke  —  • 
dead  -  " 

"  Yes.  The  letter  is  from  his  lawyers,  and  encloses  one 
from  himself  to  you.  Four  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  old  man  rent  the 
silence  by  a  long  blast  on  his  nose,  she  opened  the  letter  that 
confirmed  the  ridiculous  fairy-story  she  was  asked  to  believe. 

"  It  is  true,  Cazzy,"  she  said  at  length. 

"Yes.  I  am  sorry  I  behaved  so  foolishly,  but  —  I  was 
so  very  glad." 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  opening  the  enclosed 
letter,  addressed  to  her  in  the  big,  bold,  rather  clerkly  hand 
she  remembered. 


"  Melbourne,  August  I,"  said  the  letter,  "  My  dear 
—  I  have  got  Bright's  disease  and  am  going  to  die,  so  yoi 
won't  look  on  this  one  letter  in  the  light  of  a  broken  promise, 
Many  men  would  have  tried  again,  in  my  place,  but  I  knew 
that  your  no  meant  no,  and  so  I  never  bothered  you. 

"  By  the  time  this  letter  reaches  you  I  shall  be  dead,  and 
I  am  leaving  you  my  house  in  Westminster,  just  behind  the 
Abbey,  and  enough  money  to  run  it  comfortably.  I  hope 
you  will  live  in  the  house  sometimes,  at  least.  When  you 
do,  look  at  the  portrait  in  the  panelling  over  the  fire-pla^f 


n6  PAM    DECIDES 

in  the  oak  hall,  and  you'll  see  why  I  bought  it  of  young 
Wantage,  one  night  after  dining  there,  a  year  or  so  after  I 
last  saw  you. 

"  I  saw  your  father  and  mother  in  Japan,  and  they  are  as 
happy  as  ever.  Ah,  my  dear,  if  you  could  have  loved  me  (as 
I  could  have  loved  you)  in  the  way  they  love  each  other!  I 
have  knocked  about  a  good  bit  since  I  saw  you,  and  have  had 
some  pretty  good  times,  but  I  never  forgot  you  (women 
never  realise  how  utterly  apart  a  man's  '  good  times '  are 
from  his  love!)  and  I  can  still  see  your  dear,  plain  little 
face.  For  I  never  thought  you  pretty,  you  know.  Do  you 
remember  chasing  Caliban  round  the  garden  in  Aix  until 
he  got  palpitations  of  the  heart  ? 

"  It's  wonderful  how  clearly  I  remember  every  little  inci- 
dent connected  with  you,  and  every  word  you  ever  said  to 
me.  Well,  good-bye,  Pam.  I  loved  you  then,  and  I  love 
you  still,  somehow.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  being  so  rude 
to  you  that  time  in  Peek's  house,  but  I  was  jealous  of  him. 
Think  of  me  sometimes,  if  you  don't  mind.  God  bless  you. 

"  CHARNLEY  BURKE:  ' 


PART      TWO 


CHAPTER   I 

"  OH,  Pilly,  I  have  passed  it  dozens  of  times  on  my  way 
to  and  from  the  Cloisters!  In  the  summer  poor  children 
dance  to  the  hurdy-gurdies  in  front  of  it, — I've  seen  them !  " 

"  And  a  nice  row  they  make,  too,  I'll  be  bound,"  returned 
Pilgrim,  sourly. 

Pam  did  not  hear,  for  she  was  standing  in  a  quiet  back- 
water of  Westminster,  just  without  the  reach  of  the  ceaseless 
ebb  and  flow  of  traffic,  gazing  up  at  her  house.  Oh,  the 
wonder  of  it,  the  rapture,  that  she  the  houseless  should  have 
a  house,  that  she  the  derelict  should  have  been  towed  tc 
honourable  harbour. 

The  dingy  old  yellow-brick  edifice,  stained  and  blackened 
with  two  hundred  years  of  London  smoke,  could  not  hav? 
looked  more  beautiful  to  her  had  it  been  built  of  gold. 

A  vagrant  leading  a  dog  drifted  into  sight  from  t'ne 
direction  of  Great  Peter  Street,  and  seeing  the  lady  standing 
in  the  little  cul-de-sac  gazing  dreamily  at  the  house  that 
blocked  it,  decided  to  try  for  a  penny  and  was  given  a  shilling. 
Pam's  thin  face  glowed  with  colour  and  happiness;  she 
would  have  given  the  poor  houseless  brother  half-a-crown 
but  that  she  was  afraid  of  Pilgrim. 

"  Thank  yer,  lidy, — thank  yer.    I  don't  drink,  neither." 

"Don't  you,"  asked  Pam,  absently,  "why  not?"  Then 

117 


u8  PAM   DECIDES 

seeing  his  reproving  stare  she  burst  out  laughing  and  went 
on  to  the  broad  green  door  under  the  once-white  portico. 

As  she  touched  the  bell  a  voice  rang  out  in  the  pale  sun- 
shine, a  voice  so  great,  soft,  and  musical  that  the  girl  paused, 
holding  up  her  hand  to  Pilgrim,  who  was  about  to  speak. 

"  Hush !  '  Oh,  Lord,  our  God,  Be  thou  our  Guide  ' — 
Pilly,  it  is  Big  Ben  ringing  us  in !  " 

"  I  can't  abide  bells  myself,"  returned  Pilgrim,  "  they 
give  me  the  'eadache " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  shuffling  old  woman  appeared  in 
the  dusk  of  the  interior. 

"You  are  Mrs.  Pounder?  I  am  Miss  Yeoland,  come  to 
see — the  house." 

Mrs.  Pounder  smiled,  a  probably  forced  smile,  for  hers 
had  been  a  sinecure,  and  its  days  were  no  doubt  numbered. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss,  I'm  sure.  I  thought  you'd  be 
coming  by  the  Chimes  Lane  door;  Mr.  Wantage  allus  did, 
and  Mr.  Burke  too." 

Pam  whose  heart  was  beating  in  the  most  disconcerting 
way,  stood  peering  about  the  dark-panelled  hall  in  which  she 
found  herself.  "  But  surely  this  is  the  front-door?  " 

Mrs.  Pounder  turned  on  a  blaze  of  electric-light.  "  We 
'as  three  front-doors,  Miss,"  she  returned  with  not  un- 
natural pride,  and  a  smile  that  was  pleasant  but  dark-grey, 
owing  to  defective  teeth ;  "  it  used  to  be  three  'ouses,  they 
say.  This  is  the  oak-'all,  Miss." 

Pam  did  not  speak.  She  was  looking  up  at  the  picture 
that  Burke  had  mentioned  in  his  letter,  and  there  was  a 
queer  feeling  in  her  throat. 


PAM    DECIDES  119 

A  dark-faced  girl,  she  was,  this  girl  smiling  down  at  her 
from  her  place  in  the  panelling  over  the  high  chimney-piece. 
She  wore  a  red  kerchief  over  her  rough  black  hair,  and  a 
black  bodice  with  white  kerchief  and  sleeves,  as  if  in  some 
delicate  travesty  of  gypsydom.  Pam  saw  the  resemblance 
to  herself  at  once,  though  the  other  girl,  the  long-dead  un- 
known girl,  was  far  prettier  than  she.  There  were  the  same 
shadowy  eyes,  the  same  long,  flexible  red  mouth,  the  same 
carriage  of  the  head.  And  he  had  bought  the  house  for  the 
sake  of  the  picture! 

Her  pity  for  him  welled  up  into  her  eyes.  He  had  been 
so  big,  so  burly,  so  strong,  so  nearly  fat;  his  face  had  been 
so  red,  his  hands  so  broad ;  his  voice,  with  its  frank  Colonial 
accent,  so  loud.  He  had  loved  her,  but  she  had  never 
pitied  him  much,  and  when  he  had  gone  out  of  her  life  she 
had  never  given  him  another  thought ;  yet  he  had  remembered 
her  like  this. 

"  There  ain't  been  a  moth  in  the  house  the  'ole  time  I've 
been  in  it,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pounder  at  this  point  in  the  girl's 
reflections.  "  It's  hair  I  believe  in ;  nothing  is  so  good  as 
hair." 

"  Hair?  "  Pam  stared  at  her.    "  What  kind  of  hair?  " 

"  Fresh  hair,  Miss.  Every  week  I've  'ad  the  windows 
open,  year  in  and  year  out " 

"  Oh,"  said  Pam. 

The  hall  was  like  the  inside  of  an  old  oak  chest,  dark 
and  plain;  on  the  walls  hung  some  portraits,  and  a  huge 
Cordovan  leather  screen  hid  the  entrance-door.  There  was 
a  low  divan  by  this  screen,  and — leather  chairs! 


PAM   DECIDES 

"Pilly,"  cried  Pam,  "are  you  happy ? '' 

"Very  happy,  Miss  Pam,"  returned  Pilgrim,  looking 
supremely  miserable  and  aspirating  the  "  h  "  malignantly. 

Mrs.  Pounder  stood  with  her  hands  on  her  figure,  watch- 
ing her  new  owner  with  a.  relieved  eye.  "  Would  you  like 
to  see  the  dining-room,  Miss?" 

The  dining-room  lay  opposite  the  door  by  which  Pam  had 
entered  her  kingdom,  and  from  it,  turning  at  right  angles 
to  the  left,  a  narrow  passage  led  to  where,  at  its  rectangular 
junction  with  a  wider  one,  another  house-door  led  into  the 
street  behind  Little  Cowley  Street. 

"  This  is  the  Chimes  Lane  door,  Miss, — the  one  we 
usurly, — I  mean  the  one  the  gentlemen  usurly  used,"  ex- 
plained Mrs.  Pounder,  unbarring  and  opening  the  door  in 
question. 

Pam  looked  out  into  the  narrow  street  on  the  opposite 
side  of  which  ran  a  high  black  wall. 

"  Chimes  Lane, — what  a  pretty  name !  " 

"  Yes,  but  it's  narrow.  Now  you  see,  Miss,  this  'ere 
passage  goes  back  in  a  line  with  the  dining-room,  and  then 
you  go  up  the  steps  to  the  left  back  into  the  'all.  Just  a 
square  circle  as  you  might  say.  Them  embroideries,  and  the 
Japanese  pictures  belonged  to  Mr.  Wantage's  grandmother. 
Poor  lady,  it's  a  good  thing  she  didn't  know  of  the  goings-on 
that  was  agoin'  to  go  on  'ere  after  'er  death !  " 

Pam  stood  in  the  narrow  black  stair-case  looking  up  into 
the  hall.  "What  kind  of  goings  on?" 

"Oh,  Miss!  'E  was  very  wild,  poor  Mr.  Cyril;  very 
vild  indeed." 


PAM    DECIDES  121 

Pam  tried  to  look  sufficiently  shocked  to  satisfy  the  good 
woman's  expectations.  "  How  very  sad !  And  so  he  had  to 
sell  his  house?" 

"  Yes,  Miss." 

"  Now  we'll  go  upstairs." 

Oh,  the  joy  of  going  up  the  narrow  stair-case  of  one's  own 
house!  The  joy  of  exploring  one's  own  drawing-room,  with 
its  white  walls  up  which  flaunted,  in  broad  stripes,  preening 
peacocks;  its  glass  cupboards  filled  with  long-hoarded 
treasures  of  old  china;  its  delicately  brocaded,  spindle-legged 
chairs ;  its  pictures  of  powdered  beaux  and  beauties,  in  dulled 
gold  frames.  That  all  these  most  beautiful  and  lovable  things 
were  hers  Pam  could  not,  and  did  not,  thoroughly  realise, 
until  she  saw  Pilgrim  pinching  and  scratching  the  yellow 
satin  curtains  with  an  unmistakable  air  of  proprietorship. 

"  But  how  could  Mr.  Wantage  sell  the  house  just  as  it 
stood,"  the  girl  asked,  suddenly,  as  Pilgrim,  satisfied  with 
the  result  of  her  investigations,  dropped  the  curtain  and 
turned  to  her.  "  Was  he  the  last  of  the  family?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  Miss,  it  was  like  this.  They  wasn't 
a  great  family,  not  to  say  great.  They  was  in  the  law,  and 
there  wasn't  no  entail.  And  Mr.  Cyril,  'e  was  the  last 
male.  There  was  plenty  of  females, — they  allers  is, — but 
the  things  was  'is,  left  'im  by  'is  grandfather,  'is  father  dying 
young.  So  when  'e,  Mr.  Cyril,  wanted  to  sell,  'e  just  sold, 
and  nobody  couldn't  say  a  word.  'E  was  very  wild " 

"Is  he— still  alive?" 

"Oh,  dear  no,  Miss.  We  all  think  Vs  dead.  Miss 
'Onoria  used  to  have  letters,  but  'e  stopped  writing  long 


122  PAM    DECIDES 

ago.  I  do  'ope,"  the  old  woman  added,  "  that  'e  wasn't 
scalped." 

"  Scalped  ?    Why  should  he  have  been  ?  " 

"  Well,  Miss,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  But  'e  was  in  the 
west  of  America — in  Chicago — and  sometimes  of  an  evening 
I  get  quite  low  thinkin'  'e  might  'ave  been  scalped." 

"  It's  getting  on,  Miss  Pam,"  interrupted  Pilgrim,  who 
had  opened  the  door  corresponding  to  the  one  leading  to 
the  dining-room  one  on  the  floor  below,  "shall  we  go  on?" 

The  door  led  to  a  little  passage,  and  the  passage  into  a 
small  white-panelled  room  as  much  like  a  box  as  was  the 
hall,  only  this  was  a  white  box.  The  mantel-piece  was  of 
delicately  carved  white  marble  mellowed  to  cream-colour 
with  age.  To  the  right  and  left  of  the  fireplace  deep-carved 
cupboards,  laden  with  rich-hued  Crown  Worcester  china, 
sunk  into  the  wall,  and  over  the  low  divan  covered  with  a 
piece  of  crimson  Indian  silk,  hung  quaint  old  prints  repre- 
senting hunting-scenes.  Pam  sat  down  on  the  divan  and 
drew  a  deep  breath.  It  was  the  most  delightful  room  she 
had  ever  been  in,  and  even  in  its  desolation  of  empty  years 
there  hung  over  it  an  atmosphere,  an  aroma,  that  she  could 
not  express  even  mentally. 

It  was  as  if  the  gentle  ghosts  of  long-since-dead  inhab- 
itants of  the  little  room  still  hovered  about  it,  and  blessed 
their  blissful  successor. 

"  Pilly,"  she  said,  "  this  shall  be  my  own  room ;  my  study 
where  I  shall  never  study,  my  boudoir  where  I  shall  never 
sulk,  my  '  morning-room '  where  I  shall  spend  my 
evenings." 


CHAPTER   II 

A  WEEK  later  Pam  and  Pilgrim,  together  with  a  cook 
and  a  housemaid,  were  installed  in  the  old  house  in  West- 
minster as  comfortably  as  if  they  had  all  grown  up  together 
in  it. 

Mrs.  Pounder,  depressed  but  sympathetic,  had  shuffled 
away  to  her  native  place  by  the  sea,  where  she  was  taking 
a  small  house  in  which  Pam  had  promised  to  sojourn  for  a 
few  weeks  in  the  summer. 

It  seemed  to  Pam  very  brutal  to  turn  the  old  woman  out 
of  the  house  in  which  she  had  lived  so  long,  but  on  investi- 
gation it  transpired  that  Mrs.  Pounder's  pay  as  caretaker 
had  been  so  good,  and  her  manner  of  living  so  simple,  that 
she  found  herself  at  this  crisis  very  fairly  well-to-do,  and 
delighted  at  the  prospect  of  returning  to  Bumblemouth,  a 
village  that  appeared  from  her  lively  descriptions  to  the 
sympathetic  Pam,  to  be  a  very  Paradise  on  earth. 

So  on  Monday  morning  Mrs.  Pounder  departed  and 
Pilgrim  greedily  picked  up  the  reins  of  government. 

The  house  was  so  congenial  to  Pam  that  in  coming  to  it 
she  almost  seemed  to  be  returning  home  after  a  long 
absence. 

For  days  she  did  not  go  out,  except  once  when  the  de- 
lighted Duchess  insisted  on  taking  her  to  a  shop  and  buying 
some  clothes  for  her,  and  spent  her  whole  time  in  exploring 


i24  PAM   DECIDES 

every  inch  of  her  new  kingdom,  turning  out  drawers  and 
chests,  burrowing  in  old  trunks  in  the  garret,  even  examin- 
ing the  dark,  vaulted  cellar,  in  which  to  her  joy  she  found 
some  lonely  old  bottles  of  wine  that  had  been  forgotten 
Heaven  only  knows  how  long. 

And  one  rainy  morning  she  found,  stuffed  into  a  hideous 
old  Chinese  vase,  made  awful  by  great  dragons  galumphing 
over  it,  a  tight  roll  of  Malines  lace. 

And  oh,  the  joy  of  washing  with  one's  own  hands  the 
treasures  one  had  found;  of  polishing  bits  of  dilapidated 
silver;  of  joining  with  almost  sacrilegiously  modern  Secco- 
tine  the  long-divided  body  and  handle  of  a  Dutch  jug;  or 
with  one's  own  slow  and  clumsy  needle  mending  the  isnts 
in  a  lovely  piece  of  ancient  church  embroidery! 

Covered  with  dust,  excited  and  warm,  Pam  passed  her 
days  in  these  blissful  occupations,  and  one  morning  as  she 
was  sitting  perched  on  a  ladder  tenderly  dusting  the  picture 
over  the  mantel-piece  in  the  Oak-Hall,  Pilgrim  appeared 
from  the  short  stairs  leading  to  the  Chimes  Lane  door,  and 
announced  in  a  proud  voice,  '*  Lady  Chesney." 

Pam  turned  and  waited  for  her  cousin  to  sweep  into 
daylight.  "  Hullo,  Evelyn !  "  she  said. 

Lady  Chesney,  a  large,  beautiful  person,  the  apotheosis 
of  a  poetically  typical  milkmaid,  stood,  all  white  and  gold 
and  blue,  staring  up  into  the  room  through  a  long  gold 
lorgnon. 

"Where  are  you?"  she  asked.  "Oh, — how  like  you  1C 
receive  guests  on  a  ladder!" 

Pam  came  down,  laughing.     "  I  didn't  receive  you,  my 


PAM    DECIDES  125 

good  girl;  you  just  came!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Evy,  and  if 
I  weren't  covered  with  dust  I'd  kiss  you.  Sit  down." 

Evelyn  did  so,  but  continued  to  look  round  the  room  with 
civil  curiosity.  "  I  say,  Pam,  it's  a  quaint  old  place,  isn't 
it?  Poor  old  Burke,  how  nice  of  him  to  give  it  to  you, 
wasn't  it?  I  suppose  he  was  in  love  with  you,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  It  is,  and  it  was,  and  it's  none  of  your  business, — to  an- 
swer all  your  questions  in  orderly  sequence.  How  splendid 
you  are,  Evelyn.  I  never  thought  you'd  be  so  good-looking." 

Lady  Chesney  blushed  with  pleasure, — and  her  blush  was 
one  of  her  best  assets.  She  was  an  amiable,  stupid  young 
woman,  who  after  a  suppressed  existence  with  a  narrow  and 
tyrannical  husband,  had  been  more  surprised  than  anyone 
when  her  two  years  of  mourning  being  over,  she  emerged 
into  the  glory  and  eclat  of  beautydom. 

"You  look  very  nice,  too,"  she  returned,  a  little  timidly, 
for  having  always  got  on  Pam's  nerves,  she  was  a  trifle 
afraid  of  her  outspoken  cousin. 

"  I  always  was  beautiful,  though,"  Pam  said  solemnly, 
"  so  it's  no  surprise." 

Evelyn  smiled  politely. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  Pam  asked  herself 
what  there  was  lacking  in  her,  that  admiring  beauty  as  she 
did,  the  radiant  Evelyn  already  bored  her,  whereas  Lensky 
was  known  to  be  devoted  to  the  blooming  young  widow 
although  he  had  frankly  declared  her  to  be  stupid. 

"  You  never  answered  my  letter,"  Lady  Chesney  began 
presently. 

"  No, — I  didn't  have  time.    Who  told  you  about — this  ?  " 


126  PAM   DECIDES 

"  De  Rattrec.  I  believe  old  Cazalet  told  him.  Pam,  you 
don't  look  well.  Have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"No;  I'm  all  right." 

"  And  you  must  get  some  decent  clothes.  That  skirt  is — 
absurd." 

Evelyn's  voice  grew  firmer,  for  she  was  sure  of  her  ground 
here,  and  enjoyed  the  sensation. 

"  Nice  skirt,"  returned  Pam,  carelessly,  "  and  very  dear. 
Cost  twelve  shillings!  "  Pam  thoroughly  understood,  and 
enjoyed,  Evelyn's  standpoint,  and  the  inferior  position  she 
herself  occupied  as  an  elderly,  unbeautiful  maiden,  in  her 
cousin's  eyes. 

Lady  Chesney  raised  her  eyebrows,  a  new  trick  that  she 
had  picked  up  from  one  of  her  friends.  "  Twelve  shillings ! 
My  dear  Pam.  Well, — will  you  dine  and  go  and  hear  La 
Boheme  with  me  to-morrow?" 

Pam  rubbed  her  nose  thoughtfully,  leaving  a  black  mark 
on  that  undistinguished  feature.  "  H'm!  have  me  some  time 
when  no  opera's  on,  instead." 

"Why?" 

"  Well, — I  don't  like  music,  you  know,  and  then, — I  am 
a  dreadfully  unsociable  bird,  and  the  thought  of  meeting 
people  terrifies  my  timid  soul " 

"  Nonsense,  your  soul  isn't  a  bit  timid !  " 

"  It  is.  It's  like  an  oyster,  shy  and  retiring  in  its  shell, — 
to  say  nothing  of  the  pearl  in  it.  Who  are  dining  with 
you?" 

Evelyn  blushed  again,  her  peach-like  face  turned  away. 

"Well, — Ratty, — I  mean  de  Rattrec,  and  Dolly  Hetley, 


PAM    DECIDES  127 

and  Tony  Hetley  and — a  man  you  don't  know;  a  man 
named  de  Lensky.  All — very  nice  people  whom  you  ought 
to  know." 

Now  during  Pam's  long  years  of  social  annihilation, 
Evelyn,  though  on  the  rare  occasions  of  their  meeting  she 
had  been  kind  and  cordial  to  her  cousin,  and  offered  her 
tete-a-tete  meals  and  even  money,  there  had  been  from  her 
no  remarks  about  people  whom  Pam  ought  to  know.  And 
Pam,  of  course,  remembered  this,  but  quite  without  resent- 
ment. Sir  George  Chesney  had  never  approved  of  her,  but 
he  would  have  helped  her  to  live  if  she  had  been  willing 
to  take  help  from  him,  and  Evelyn  had  more  than  once 
urgently  pressed  her  cousin  to  take  if  not  his,  then  at  least 
some  of  her  own  money.  So  Pam  realised  that  they  had 
both  treated  her,  as  the  world  goes,  uncommonly  well,  and 
understood  most  clearly  that  Evelyn's  present  attitude  was 
natural  and  not  at  all  to  be  objected  to. 

But  whereas  the  old  Duchess  would  any  day  have  picked 
Pam,  dusty  or  muddy,  up  in  her  carriage  no  matter  who 
might  at  the  moment  be  sharing  it  with  her,  and  borne  the 
girl  home  in  triumph,  Evelyn  would,  if  chance  had  brought 
them  together  in  the  presence  of  other  people,  have  been 
ashamed  of  her  cousin,  and,  if  possible,  would  have  avoided 
speaking  to  her. 

And  because  of  the  characteristic  differences  that  lay  at 
the  root  of  these  two  potential  lines  of  action,  rather  than 
the  potential  lines  of  action  themselves,  Pam  loved  the 
Duchess  and  looked  on  Evelyn  with  a  sort  of  benevolent 
indifference. 


128  PAM   DECIDES 

"Will  you  come?"  urged  Lady  Chesney,  a  little  anx- 
iously, "  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  all, — about  how  we 
shall  have  to  manage " 

"  Manage  what  ?  " 

"  I  mean  socially.  You  see  you  disappeared  so  completely, 
I  daresay  most  people  think  you  are  dead " 

"  Most  people  don't  know  I  ever  lived.  I  was  always 
beautifully  obscure " 

"  You  know  whaj  I  mean.  And  now  you  have  this 
really  very  nice  little  house  you'll  of  course  have  to " 

"To  resurrect?"  Pam  frowned,  and  rising  began  to 
prowl  about  the  room,  her  hands  behind  her  back,  her  head 
bent.  Until  now  all  these  things  had  not  occurred  to  her. 
Subconsciously,  as  she  washed  her  china  treasures  and 
mended  her  old  pieces  of  embroidery,  she  had  pictured  the 
future  as  very  much  resembling  the  past,  but  for  the 
blazoned  facts  of  the  house  and  what  seemed  to  her  plenty 
of  money. 

She  saw  herself  and  Pilly  living  on  alone,  going  to  an 
occasional  play,  enjoying  a  holiday  every  summer.  She 
would  as  usual  take  long  tramps,  spend  mornings  in  picture- 
galleries,  and  amuse  herself  in  helping  substantially  those 
of  her  friends  to  whom  hitherto  she  had  been  able  to  give 
only  immaterial  aid. 

And  now  it  appeared  that  hordes  of  people  were  going  to 
descend  on  her,  wrecking  her  solitude,  disturbing  her  habits, 
jarring  against  the  shyness  that  half  unknown  to  herself 
had  grown  up  like  a  delicate  shell  between  her  and  the  rest 
of  the  world. 


PAM   DECIDES  129 

"  I  am  very  poor,  really,  for  the  likes  of  you,"  she  pleaded 
feebly.  "  I  can't  give  dinners  and  things " 

Evelyn  nodded  with  solemn  importance.  "  Of  course  you 
can't, — he  might  just  as  well  have  made  it  five  hundred 
— but — you  can  enjoy  life  again,  and  you  see  I  can  chaperon 
you." 

Pam's  frown  disappeared  and  she  turned  to  her  cousin 
with  a  laugh.  "  Ha-ha!  I  see  now,  you  artful  thing!  You 
want  me  to  chaperon  you.  I  understand  that  every  smart 
young  matron  needs  a  respectable-looking  girl  to  take  about 
with  her,  nowadays!  And  you  think  I  would  answer  the 
purpose  for  you!  Well,  I  won't.  I  won't  be  gooseberry, 
and  I  won't  go  to  three-cornered  dinners  and  luncheons.  I 
am  old  and  crusty  and  intend  to  spend  my  declining  years 
au  coin  du  feu  with  a  book ! " 

"  How  horrid  of  you,  Pam.  You  are  just  the  same  nasty 
tease  you  used  to  be.  And  you  are  unjust.  I  thought  you'd 
be  glad  to  have  a  good  time  again,  and  I  wanted  to  help 
you."  Evelyn's  blue  eyes  were  wet  with  vexation,  and  Pam 
relented.  "  All  right,  Evy,  I'll  come  to-morrow.  What 
time?" 

"  Seven.  And — don't  mention  that  you've  been  in  town 
always,  will  you?  " 

"  Not  unless  I'm  asked.  I'll  come  late,  and  you  tell  'em 
all  first  that  I'm  just  out  of  a  private  lunatic  asylum, — so 
they'll  avoid  the  delicate  subject  of  my  past.  How's 
Ratty?" 

"  He's  very  well.  I  call  him  de  Rattrec  now.  Then  you 
won't  tell  about — that  place  ?  " 


130  PAM    DECIDES 

"  Bloomsbury  is  certainly  infinitely  more  respectable  than 
Great  Peter  Street !  " 

"  Oh  dear,"  wailed  Lady  Chesney  forlornly,  "  Ratty  said 
you'd  behave  like  that !  " 

"  Did  he  tell  you  of  our  last  cosy  chat  together?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did,  and  I  must  say  I  think  you  behaved  abom- 
inably. However,  he  won't  bother  you  any  more.  He  is 
really  in  love  now, — such  a  sweet  girl,  Dolly  Hetley,  a 
great  friend  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  really?  I  am  glad,  Evy.  Give  him  my  love,  will 
you?" 

*  ^  }ien  Lady  Chesney  had  gone,  Pam  went  upstairs  and 
sought  out  Pilgrim. 

"  Pilly,"  she  said,  "  prepare  purple  and  fine  linen  for  me, 
and  myrtle  to  bind  my  brows, — I  am  dining  out  to- 
morrow ! " 

"  Well !  I  am  glad,  Pam.  The  new  black  dress  will  be 
just  the  thing." 

"  No, — I  must  be  very  fine.  Mr.  de  Lensky  is  to  be 
there  and  I  want  to  dazzle  him.  I  shall  wear  the  pink  one 
the  Duchess  chose  for  me !  " 


CHAPTER   III 

LADY  CHESNEVS  was  one  of  those  downy,  silky, 
dusky,  drawing-rooms  that  have  of  late  years  become  so 
common  in  London. 

One's  feet  sank  into  the  rugs,  one's  body  into  the  chairs, 
one's  eyes  were  met  on  all  sides  with  pictures  of  languorous 
drowsy  women  and  children. 

By  day,  filmy  lace  curtains  behind  the  silk  ones  kept  out 
the  light,  and  at  night  the  room  was  rosily  crepuscular  under 
the  subdued  glow  of  the  dull  electric  bulbs. 

Evelyn's  favourite  flower,  tall  white  lilies,  grew  in  brass 
pots  and  spread  on  the  air  a  thick  scent  that,  mingled  with 
the  more  pungent  odour  of  some  oriental  powder  that  she 
strewed  on  her  wood-fire,  had  a  curiously  enervating  effect 
on  one's  brain  and  disposed  one  to  great  physical  lethargy 
as  well.  When  Pam,  outwardly  calm  but  inwardly  quiver- 
ing with  excitement,  entered  this  room  on  Wednesday  even- 
ing, she  found  that  she  was  indeed,  as  she  had  jokingly 
threatened  to  be,  the  last  of  the  guests  to  arrive. 

Evelyn  stood  by  the  fire,  a  little  silver  shovel  in  her  hand, 
digging  from  an  inlaid  box  held  to  her  by  a  tall  man  with  a 
very  bald  head,  some  brownish  powder. 

"  Oh,  Pam," — she  cried,  coming  forward,  handing  the 
shovel  to  the  man,  "  I  was  afraid  you  had  understood  half- 
past  seven "  Kissing  her  cousin,  Lady  Chesney  intro- 
duced her  to  a  dark  woman  dressed  in  flame-colour,  who  was 


132  PAM   DECIDES 

sitting  on  the  sofa  with  Lensky,  adding  as  she  emptied  her 
shovel  into  the  fire,  producing  thereby  a  loud  spluttering 
and  smoke,  and  an  almost  overpoweringly  strong  scent, 
something  like  that  of  incense, — "  and  Mr.  de  Lensky  and 
Mr.  Hetley " 

The  two  men  bowed,  and  rising  from  a  corner  where  he 
was  sitting  with  a  girl  with  a  green  and  gold  wreath  in  her 
hair,  Ratty  came  lumbering  not  without  dignity  towards  the 
newcomer. 

"How  d'you,  Ratty?" 

"  H'  are  you,  Pam." 

It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  the  girl ;  the  informal  going  in 
to  dinner,  the  beautiful  table,  the  flowers,  the  shaded  lights. 
It  was  so  long  since  she  had  taken  such  things  as  a  pleasant 
matter  of  course. 

She  sat,  as  there  was  one  man  too  few,  between  Evelyn 
and  Bob  Hetley,  the  bald-headed  man,  whose  chief  charac- 
teristic appeared  to  be  an  appalling  stammer  over  which 
everyone  made  merry,  and  opposite  Lensky,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  since  she  left  Huntley  Street. 

It  was  nine  years  since  she  had  had  on  a  low  frock,  and 
she  felt  not  embarrassed,  but  a  little  cold.  It  seemed  to  her, 
too,  that  while  Evelyn's  milky  shoulders  were  a  joy  to  be- 
hold, and  Lady  Alys  Compton's  jewels  covered  a  multitude 
of  sins,  the  displayal  of  her  own  brownish  bony  structure 
could  add  but  little  to  the  joy  of  the  occasion. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  in  silence  listening  to  the  chatter 
of  the  othersj  and  studying  her  neighbours. 

Ratty's  devotion  to  little  Miss  Hetley   was  unmistakable, 


PAM    DECIDES  133 

but  it  amused  Pam  to  see  that  the  fat  youth  was  not  above 
displaying  it  a  trifle  ostentatiously  for  her  benefit,  and  that 
he  cast  an  occasional  glance  at  her,  in  search  of  the  pique 
believed  by  the  stronger  sex  to  be  felt  by  every  woman  in 
the  circumstances. 

Miss  Hetley  was  pink  and  soft,  with  a  shrewd  grey  eyes 
that  looked  with  evident  favour  on  her  large  admirer. 

Lady  Alys,  the  woman  in  the  vermilion  gauze  frock, 
nervous,  dark,  fine-featured,  something  like  an  East  Indian 
in  type,  watched  Lensky  furtively,  but  he  had  eyes  for  no 
one  but  Evelyn,  who  looked  like  a  big  Mermet  rose-bud  in 
her  white  frock. 

Pam  felt  very  old,  as  she  watched  her  cousin  and  the  little 
Hetley  girl.  Evelyn  looked  not  a  day  more  than  five-and- 
twenty,  though  she  was  in  reality  Pam's  senior  by  about 
two  years,  and  Dolly  Hetley,  if  she  lived  to  be  a  hundred, 
would  never  grow  to  be  other  than  a  wrinkled  old  child, 
whereas  she,  Pam,  knew  herself  to  bear  ineffaceable  signs  of 
her  years  of  poverty  and  inferior  food. 

She  had,  too,  forgotten  the  very  language  of  these  people. 
They  named  names  she  had  never  heard,  used  slang  phrases 
she  did  not  understand. 

The  dinner  was  excellent,  and  Pam  being  hungry  and 
still  unused  to  table-luxuries,  ate  hers  with  great  enjoyment; 
her  curious  agitation  gradually  dying  away  and  leaving 
her  inwardly  as  tranquil  as  she  had  looked  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

"  Have  you  heard  La  Boheme  this  year?"  asked  Lensky 
suddenly,  for  the  first  time  speaking  to  her. 


I34  PAM   DECIDES 

"  I  have  never  heard  it." 

"  My  cousin  is  not  a  bit  musical,"  laughed  Evelyn.  "  As 
a  child  she  used  to  say  it  made  her  want  to  howl,  like  a 
dog." 

"  Your  rag-time  p-p-p-performances  would  about 
p-p-please  her,  then,  Lensky,"  suggested  Mr.  Hetley  ex- 
plosively. 

"  What  is  rag-time?  " 

Hetley  set  down  his  glass — "  Syn-syn-syn "  he  began, 

and  Ratty  burst  into  a  great  unlovely  guffaw, 

"  We'll  forgive  you  your  sins,  Tony,"  he  cried,  delighted 
with  his  joke,  "  if  you  promise  never  to  do  it  again !  " 

"  -copated  dance-music,  M-Miss  Yeoland,"  pursued  Het- 
ley tranquilly,  "  is  called  rag-time.  And  Mr.  de  Lensky 
is  great  at  it,  aren't  you,  Jack  ?  " 

Lensky  smiled  without  speaking,  but  Pam  knew  that 
he  did  not  give  of  his  best  music  to  everyone,  as  he  had 
to  her. 

Then  he  turned  again  to  Evelyn,  and  a  devotional  smile 
just  stirring  his  beautiful  mouth,  leaned  towards  her, — so 
much  nearer  than  any  other  man  in  the  world  could  have 
leaned  without  being  obnoxious, — and  resumed  his  inter- 
rupted conversation  with  her. 

When  dinner  was  over  and  the  men  had  come  into  the 
drawing-room  there  was  a  hurried  donning  of  wraps  and 
dividing  up  for  the  drive  to  the  opera. 

"  I'll  take  Dolly  and  Mr.  de  Lensky,"  said  Evelyn  to 
Lady  Alys,  "and  will  you  take  Tony  and  Pam?  My 
brother  is  going  in  a  hansom." 


PAM    DECIDES  135 

But  Lady  Alys  returned  between  two  puffs  of  her1  cigar- 
ette, "  Thank  you,  my  dear.  I've  had  as  much  as  I  can 
stand  of  Tony  for  one  evening.  You  may  have  him,  and 
Jack  will  come  with  me.  I  have  a  very  important  secret 
to  tell  him,  too." 

Evelyn  flushed  and  bit  her  lip.  "  Very  well, — just  as 
you  like.  Will  you  go,  then,  Pam,  and  Mr.  de  Lensky, 
with  Lady  Alys?" 

Lensky  who  had  stood  smoking  and  apparently  hearing 
nothing  of  the  discussion,  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  put 
the  two  women  into  the  roomy  electric  brougham,  jumping 
in  after  them.  Pam  was  much  amused. 

As  the  carriage  flew  through  the  shafts  of  light  that  lie 
like  isolated  patches  of  sunshine  on  the  dark  London  streets, 
she  could  see  Lensky's  face  as  he  peered  into  Lady  Alys' 
and  his  expression  was  every  bit  as  passionately  admiring 
as  it  had  been  half-an-hour  before,  when  he  gazed  at 
Evelyn. 

"  Do  you  speak  German,  Miss  Yeoland  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Alys  suddenly. 

"  No." 

"  Then, — you  won't  mind  my  telling  Mr.  de  Lensky 
something  in  that  hideous  tongue, — not  my  secret,  but  about 

a  third  person "  But  Pam  knew  what  "  warum " 

meant,  and  it  was  the  burden  of  the  song.  Why,  and  why, 
and  again  why? 

And  that  Lensky  was  annoyed  she  could  see  by  his  slight 
frown,  and  the  shortness  of  his  answers. 

When  they  reached  Covent  Garden  and  they  were  going 


136  PAM   DECIDES 

up  stairs,  Lady  Alys  stopped  to  pick  up  her  skirts  and 
Lensky  and  Pam  were  for  a  moment  out  of  earshot. 

"  I  have  so  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  may 
I  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

She  turned  and  smiled  at  him.  "  Yes,  do,"  she  answered, 
"  I  want  to  show  you  my  house." 


CHAPTER   IV 

DURING  the  performance  of  the  beautiful  little  opera 
Pam  sat  quietly  in  her  place  and  laid  plans  for  the  future. 
The  music  was  to  her  merely  a  not  unpleasant  humming 
accompaniment  to  her  very  important  reflections,  and  Mimi, 
Rodolfo  and  the  rest  of  the  actors  disturbed  her  hardly  at  all. 

It  was  pleasant  in  the  box,  pleasant  to  watch  Evelyn  as 
she  listened  in  dreamy  delight  to  the  familiar  music;  pleas- 
ant even  to  study  the  other  woman's  dark  face  as  she  sulked 
with  the  serenely  oblivious  Lensky,  pleasant  to  observe  the 
progress  of  Ratty's  so  convenient  and  well-timed  love-mak- 
ing, but  it  was  still  better  to  decide  that  she  herself  would, 
in  the  future,  frequent  but  rarely  her  cousin's  over-scented 
house,  that  being  so  used  to  solitude  she  needed  it,  and 
would  continue  to  enjoy  it. 

"  I  shall  be  eccentric,"  she  told  herself,  watching  placidly 
while  Rodolfo  recounted  to  Marcello  the  heart-breaking  tale 
of  Mimi's  illness,  what  time  that  unfortunate  mome  listens 
from  behind  a  snow-laden  tree, — "  and  then  I  can  enjoy 
life.  I  couldn't  stand  much  of  this  kind  of  thing.  I  won- 
der what  these  two  poor  dears  would  say  if  they  knew 
that  the  object  of  their  rivalry  wants  to  marry  me!  Wanted 
to,  rather,  though.  He  doesn't  look  particularly  ravaged, 
I  must  say!  Perhaps  he's  glad  now  he  sees  how  ugly  I  look 
in  evening-dress!  Although  it  could  hardly  have  been  my 
beauty  that  beguiled  him  in  the  first  place. 

137 


138  PAM   DECIDES 

"  Well, — va  pour  la  vie  de  foyer!  I'm  glad  I  have  made 
up  my  mind.  It's  been  like  a  jelly-fish  ever  since  I  began 
to  think  about  all  this.  The  Duchess  will  let  me  go  to  her 
when  I  get  lonely  and  want  to  be  with  people,  and  Evy, 
who  really  isn't  so  bad,  will  ask  me  to  dine  occasionally, 
but  Pilly  and  I  will  stick  to  each  other  and  I'll  eat  most  of 
my  dinners  at  home.  By  the  way,  I'm  going  to  get  some 
oysters — lots  of  oysters, — and  eat  till  I  drop " 

At  this  point  the  curtain  went  down  on  the  beautiful 
duet  between  the  reconciled  lovers,  and  the  house  burst 
into  applause:  Lensky  did  not  move.  Lady  Alys  spoke  to 
him  and  he  did  not  hear.  Evelyn  turned  towards  him  and 
he  did  not  see.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Pam  watched  him  with  a  motherly  longing  to  hide  his 
emotion  from  these  people  who  would  not  understand  it, 
but  Lady  Alys  burst  out  laughing.  "  Look  at  our  Jacky 
boy!  Wazzums  tender  heart  broken  over  the  woes  of  a 
wretched  little  cocotte!" 

He  wiped  his  eyes  and  put  in  his  glass.  "  Oh,  you  poor 
English  who  never  feel  music.  You  think  you  hear  it  with 
your  ears,  but  you  don't,"  he  answered,  his  slight  accent 
stronger  than  Pam  had  ever  heard  it,  "  you  don't  know  what 
loving  it  means." 

For  a  moment  the  cosmopolitan  in  him  was  gone ;  he  was 
the  son  of  a  susceptible  Slavic  race,  frank  in  his  emotion- 
ality, facing  a  handful  of  phlegmatic  islanders,  scorning 
them  for  their  limitations. 

Lady  Alys  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  took  up  her 
glass,  while  Evelyn  shook  hands  with  some  men  who  had 


PAM    DECIDES  139 

come  in,  and  after  a  moment  Lensky  went  out,  appearing  a 
moment  later  in  an  opposite  box,  where  he  sat  chattering 
French  with  the  wife  of  the  French  Ambassador. 

"  Queer  chap,  Lensky,"  observed  one  of  the  newcomers, 
"  they  say  he  speaks  eleven  tongues." 

"  He  has  been  weeping  over  our  friend  Mimi,"  returned 
Lady  Alys,  carelessly,  "he  is  a  sentimental  little  wretch. 
Nerves,  I  dare  say." 

"  Not  he!  I've  seen  him  lose  £5,000  without  moving  a 
muscle  of  his  face.  And  he's  the  best  pistol-shot  in  town. 
He's  the  hardest  little  beggar  I  know!  " 

"  Then  I  must  say  I  can't  understand  his  getting  so  on 
edge  over  this  stuff!  If  it  were  Wagner  now,"  commented 
Lady  Alys,  who  went  to  Bayreuth  religiously  and  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  music. 

Pam  turned.  "  It's  simply  that  he  enjoys  music  and  is 
not  ashamed  of  showing  his  feelings,"  she  said.  "  Surely 
that  is  perfectly  understandable?  He  is  absolutely  unaf' 
fected  and  natural,  and  therefore  he  is  misunderstood ! " 

Lady  Alys  stared. 

"Is  it!  You  seem  to  be  very  sure  about  it, — though  we 
have  known  him  for  years " 

Pam  laughed.  "  I  was  brought  up  abroad  and  have  seen 
more  than  one  brave  man  cry  over  music." 

The  man  who  had  made  the  remark  about  Lensky's  pis- 
tol-shooting nodded  solemnly.  "Yes,  he's  brave  enough. 
Jack  is.  Queer  little  chap  in  some  ways,  but  he's  all 
there " 

Lensky  came  back  a  few  moments  later  and  wept  again 


I4o  PAM   DECIDES 

when  Mimi  died,  and  Lady  Alys,  apparently  deciding  to 
change  her  tactics,  wiped  her  own  perfectly  dry  eyes  and 
murmured  that  it  was  too  exquisite. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  box  it  was  decided  that  they 
should  all  go  to  her  house  and  see  what  kind  of  a  supper 
they  could  get,  and  Pam  very  sleepy,  and  longing  to  get 
home,  found  herself  a  little  later  sitting  on  a  low  chair  by  s, 
fire  with  Bill  Compton,  while  Lady  Alys,  Lensky,  Evelyn 
and  Hetley  were  busy  with  a  "  chafing-dish  "  in  the  next 
room. 

Bill  Compton  had  been  drinking,  and  as  usual,  when 
in  that  condition,  was  very  confidential. 

He  told  Pam  that  he  liked  her,  that  he  trusted  her,  that 
he  knew  the  minute  he  set  eyes  on  her  that  she  was  a  good 
sort.  Then  he  added,  fixing  her  with  a  watery  stare,  "  that 
chap  Lesky — Lensky — is  making  love  to  my  wife,  and  I'm 
going  to  stop  it,  by  Gad ! " 

"How?"  asked  Pam. 

This  question  he  found  worthy  of  the  profoundest  atten- 
tion, and  then,  after  a  reflective  pause,  answered  that  all 
women  were  beasts,  and  the  Wentworth  women  the  worst 
of  the  lot. 

"  Poor's  a  rat  when  I  married  her,"  he  continued,  "  and 
look  at  her  now !  And  look  at  the  way  I  treat  her.  I  mean, 
the  way  she  treats  me!  He'll  get  sick  of  her,  though." 
Judging  by  her  own  observations  that  evening,  Pam  thought 
this  contingency  an  extremely  likely  one,  but  she  did  not 
say  so.  "  She's  crazy  about  him,"  he  resumed,  while  she 
suppressed  a  yawn.  "  Not  that  I'm  accusing  her  of  any- 


PAM    DECIDES  141 

thing,  you  understand,"  with  drunken  dignity, — "  it's  just 
foolin',  but  it's  disgustin'  foolin'." 

"  It's  only  a  manner,"  consoled  Pam,  her  eyelids  falling 
over  her  eyes,  "  just  a  sort  of  modern  mannerism." 

Mr.  Compton  took  her  hand.  "  You're  a  sensible  woman, 
Mrs. — Mrs. — sensiblest  woman  I've  seen  for  a  long 

time "  At  this  point  Lady  Alys  called  them  to  supper 

and  Pam  escaped,  to  her  great  relief. 

Never,  in  all  her  years  of  poverty  and  loneliness,  had  she 
been  so  bored  as  she  was  at  that  supper.  Evelyn  was  dull, 
Lady  Alys,  in  the  triumph  of  Lensky's  renewed  devotion, 
noisy  and  silly,  Ratty  and  his  Dolly  oblivious  of  everyone 
and  everything  but  themselves,  and  Bill  Compton,  as  he 
grew  drunker,  growing  more  embarrassing.  It  was  a  ghastly 
meal  to  which  no  one  brought  even  an  appetite,  and  when 
at  two  o'clock  the  depressing  and  depressed  party  broke  up 
with  loud  thanks  for  an  awfully  jolly  evening,  Pam,  whom 
Evelyn  dropped  in  Westminster,  vowed  a  vow  to  herself 
that  she  would  never  again  allow  herself  to  be  so  bored. 

"  Pilgrim,"  she  said,  as  the  old  woman  who  had  heard 
the  carriage,  helped  her  undress,  "  the  world  has  changed 
since  my  young  days  I" 


CHAPTER   V 

LENSKY  came  to  tea  the  next  day,  and  Pam  took  him 
all  over  the  house,  showing  each  individual  treasure,  and 
listening  with  respect  to  his  edicts  regarding  the  china  in 
the  cupboards,  for  he  was,  as  he  put  it  with  one  of  his 
quaint  outbursts  of  slang,  rather  long  on  china. . 

And  to  her  delight  she  learned  that  she  possessed  some 
Lowestoft,  and  some  very  good  eld  Chelsea,  as  well  as  the 
bedragoned  Crown  Worcester  that  even  her  uneducated  eye 
had  recognised. 

"  This  teapot,"  he  told  her  gravely,  holding  it  in  his  hand 
and  bending  his  sleek  head  over  it  until  he  looked  as  though 
he  were  about  to  kiss  it,  "  is  delicious.  I  have  seen  only  a 
little  of  this  rose-colour.  It  is  quite  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful bits  I  know." 

Pam  took  it.  "Do  you  really  like  it  so  much?"  she 
asked. 

He  flushed  with  enthusiasm.  "But  I  tell  you  I  know  it 
is  good!  Old  Chelsea  is  my  hobby.  It  is  a  wonderful 
piece ! " 

They  went  back  into  the  white  study  and  sat  down,  Pam 
nursing  the  teapot  in  her  arms.  They  had  had  tea,  and  the 
fire  glowed  cosily. 

"  I  have  so  often  thought  of  having  you  here,"  she  began 
abruptly,  and  then  paused,  distressed  by  her  own  tactless- 

142 


««IT  IS  A  WONDERFUL  PIECE! 


PAM    DECIDES  143 

ness,  but  he  apparently  had  not  noticed  it.  Leaning  forward, 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  he  smiled. 

"  How  good  of  you!  And  I  am  so  glad  to  come;  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  come  often  ?  " 

She  had  rather  dreaded  his  first  visit  to  her  here,  fearing 
the  effect  of  her  charming  surroundings,  but  he  seemed  to 
have  entirely  forgotten  the  episode  in  St.  Giles'  Churchyard. 
There  was  neither  the  least  embarrassment  nor  the  least 
sadness  in  his  manner,  so  that  she  too  was  quite  comfortable, 
and  began  to  feel  that  she  might  be  as  fond  of  him  as  she 
liked,  without  danger  of  hurting  him. 

"  Do  come  often.  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I  was  bored 
to  death  last  night." 

"Were  you?" 

"  Yes.  I  didn't  mind  the  dinner  and  the  opera,  but  it 
was  too  awful  at  Lady  Alys' !  " 

He  laughed.  "  Was  it  ?  I  am  such  a  frivolous  little 
wretch,  I  suppose, — I  enjoyed  it,  rather." 

"  Did  you  enjoy  the  Honourable  Bill?  " 

"Well,  no;  Bill  is  rather  awful.  But  I  hate  going  to 
bed,  and  like  fooling  about  with  a  lot  of  pretty  women." 

"  I  like  pretty  women,  too ;  but  I'd  like  'em  better  if  they 
didn't  talk.  The  truth  is,  I'm  old" 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  Eight-and-twenty  last  week.  By  the  way,  how  old  are 
you?" 

"  Guess." 

For  a  moment  she  reflected,  studying  his  smooth  face  as 
he  looked  serenely  at  her.  "  Twenty-nine  ?  " 


144  PAM    DECIDES 

"  I  am  thirty-four.  I  don't  look  it,  do  I  ?  Though 
Heaven  knows  I  haven't  taken  care  of  myself  in  any 
way." 

Pam  was  astounded.  He  really  looked  remarkably 
young. 

"  It's  your  eyes,"  she  announced,  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

"My  eyes?" 

"  Yes.    You  have  no  lines  round  them,  and  then " 

"And  then?" 

"  Well, — they  look  good.  Oh,  I  know  you're  not  good, — 
that  is,  I  know  you  are  no  saint, — but  your  eyes  haven't 
got  that  horrid,  swollen,  fast  look " 

Lensky  rarely  laughed  aloud,  but  he  did  now,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  saw  his  teeth,  small,  and  even,  and  white,  with 
one  or  two  specks  of  gold.  "  Oh,  you  are  funny,"  he 
cried,  "so  funny!  So  I  am  not  a  saint,  and  yet  I  haven't 
swollen  eyes?  I  am  glad.  But  who  has  been  telling  you 
that  I  am  a  rake  and  a  gambler?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "  A  large,  wise  bird.     Is  it  true  ?  " 

Quite  suddenly  his  face  was  grave.  "  Yes,"  he  returned, 
"  it  is  true,  but  you  must  not  like  me  the  less.  I  do  nothing 
for  which  I  must  blush " 

It  was  Pam  who  blushed.  "  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she 
cried,  rising  and  standing  before  him,  the  rosy  teapot  held 
to  her  breast,  "  I  don't  know  what  possessed  me  to  say  such 
a  thing!  I  like  you  more  than  anyone  on  earth  except — 
don't  laugh, — Pilgrim,  and  I  don't  care  a  button  what  you 
do,  I  shall  always  like  you  and  always  be  your  friend." 


PAM    DECIDES  145 

He  rose  and  took  her  hand.  "  Thank  you,  Miss  Yeoland. 
I  am  very  grateful,  and  very — proud." 

"  Then, — take  the  teapot  as  a — a  ratification  of  our 
treaty,  will  you?  I  have  wanted  to  give  you  some  little 
thing  as  a  sort  of  souvenir.  You  don't  know,  you  have  no 
idea,  what  your  friendship  meant  to  me  when  I  was  so  alone. 
I  was  not  unhappy,  you  know,  but  I  was  lonely,  and  you 
came,  and  didn't  mind  my  living  in  that  awful  house,  or 
my  clothes,  or  anything,  and — please  don't  say  no,"  she 
urged,  pressing  the  teapot  into  his  hands,  "  it  will  make  me 
so  happy  to  know  you  have  it."  As  she  finished  speaking  the 
door  opened  and  the  Duchess  appeared. 

"Jack!    You  here!" 

Pam  flew  at  the  old  lady,  who,  very  mountainous  in  her 
velvet  and  furs,  could  hardly  get  into  the  tiny  room,  and 
kissed  her. 

Then  Lensky,  the  teapot  in  his  hand,  approached  and 
kissed  her  glove.  "  I  knew  you  two  would  like  each  other," 
laughed  the  Duchess,  "  but  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here 
yet.  What  are  you  doing  with  that  teapot,  Lensky  ?  " 

Pam  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him,  and  he  answered  quietly, 
setting  it  down  on  the  table,  "  It  is  mine,  Duchess.  Do  you 
like  Chelsea?" 

But  the  Duchess  was  full  of  a  grand  scheme  for  taking 
Pam  to  a  reception  the  next  afternoon,  and  then  home  to 
dine  at  her  house. 

"  The  Pockington's  are  coming,  and  Henry  is  crazy  to 
see  you.  He  was  always  a  great  admirer  of  yours!  Then 
I've  asked  Evelyn  and  the  Fat  Boy,  as  cousins,  and  the  Fat 


146  PAM   DECIDES 

Boy's  Hetley  girl,  and  one  of  the  Japs, — a  very  intelligent 
little  man,  a  marquis  or  something,  in  his  own  country,"  she 
added,  with  insular  condescension,  "  and  several  others.  I 
was  so  annoyed  with  Evelyn  for  getting  you  first,  for  you 
were  always  '  my  girl,'  as  children  say,  and  I  wanted  to 
have  you  under  my  wing.  Can  you  come,  Lensky  ?  " 

The  old  lady  had  lived  abroad  at  one  period  of  her  not 
uneventful  life,  and  called  Continental  men  by  their  family 
names,  in  the  Continental  fashion. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Duchess " 

Pam  sat  quite  still.  The  net  was  closing  round  her.  Poor 
and  unbeautiful  though  she  was,  she  knew  that  she  would 
not  pass  unobserved;  and  introduced  to  people  by  the  most 
popular  Duchess  in  Great  Britain,  she  was  bound  to  be 
invited  to  all  kinds  of  things  at  all  kinds  of  houses. 

For  one  despairing  moment  she  longed  for  the  obscurity 
of  Huntley  Street,  and  then  summoning  up  her  courage, 
she  answered,  "  Dear  Duchess, — I  have  lived  alone  for  so 
long, — please  let  me  come  and  lunch  alone  with  you.  I  am 
a  savage,  I  sat  as  mute  as  a  fish  last  night  at  Evy's,  and 
bored  them  all  to  death, — didn't  I,  Mr.  de  Lensky?" 

"Yes,  you  must  have  bored  Lensky  horribly;  that's  why 
he  has  called  the  day  after  he  met  you!  Nonsense,  Pam. 
You  may  do  as  you  like  afterwards,  but  you  must  dine  with 
me  to-morrow." 

"  Very  well." 

"You  promise?" 

"  I  promise." 

A  moment  later  Lensky  took  his  leave,  carrying  the  tea- 


PAM   DECIDES  147 

pot,  to  which  he  made  no  further  reference,  and  the  old 
lady  sat  over  half-an-hour  talking  about  him. 

"  They  say  Alys  Compton  is  Tiaking  a  perfect  fool  of 
herself  over  him.  Was  she  there  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course.  She  and  Evelyn  used  to  be  great  friends, 
and  now  that  they  are  rivals  Madame  Evy  doesn't  dare 
drop  her!  How  did  he  behave?" 

Pam  laughed.     "  He  seems  to  enjoy  homage." 

"  He  does,  I  dare  say.  They  all  do.  But  I  am  glad 
that  you  and  he  like  each  other.  I  like  him  far  the  best  of 
all  the  young  men  about  town." 

When  she  rose  to  go,  and  Pam  was  hooking  her  sable 
coat,  the  Duchess  remarked  casually,  "  Henny  will  be  glad 
to  see  you  again,  my  dear,  and  so  will  James." 

"James!" 

"  Yes.  He  wasn't  coming, — to  the  dinner  to-morrow,  I 
mean,  but  when  I  told  him  you  were  coming  he  at  once 
asked  permission  to  change  his  mind.  He  said  he  saw  you 
at  the  opera  last  night,  and  that  you  had  changed  so  little 
he  expected  to  see  the  monkey  pop  up  beside  you." 

When  she  was  quite  alone  Pam  sat  down  on  the  old  bear- 
skin by  the  fire  and  gave  herself  up  to  thought. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  is  very  unusual  that  in  an  hour  of  stress  and  indecision 
a  woman  has  literally  no  one  to  whom  she  can  turn  for 
advice,  and  this  was  Pam's  condition  now  as  she  faced  her 
problem.  Beside  Pilgrim,  her  only  two  friends  were  the 
Duchess  and  de  Lensky,  and  even  if  she  had  had  the  habit 
of  counsel-seeking,  she  would  not  have  consulted  either  of 
them. 

And  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  while,  in  her  years  of  strug- 
gle she  had  never  missed  the  counsellor  she  might  have  had, 
now,  in  her  prosperity,  when  things  were  going  so  well 
with  her,  she  felt  a  vague  longing  to  tell  someone  her 
trouble,  and  to  abide  blindly  by  that  someone's  decision.  In 
two  words  her  situation  was  this.  If  she  refused,  after  hav- 
ing promised,  to  go  to  the  Duchess'  dinner  she  would  un- 
doubtedly offend,  and  not  improbably  alienate  the  old  lady's 
long-suffering  affection  for  her,  whereas  if  she  went  she 
must  renew  her  acquaintance  with  James  Peele,  the  man 
whom,  more  than  anyone  in  the  whole  world,  she  most 
wished  to  avoid. 

After  her  solitary  dinner  the  girl  called  Pilgrim  and  they 
went  for  an  hour's  drive  in  a  hansom. 

Pam  loved  the  crowded  evening  streets,  the  lights,  the 
bustle,  the  glimpses  of  people  in  evening  dress  on  their  way 
to  the  play.  And  the  deft  swiftness  of  the  hansom  suited  her 

148 


PAM    DECIDES  149 

thoroughly.  She  could  think  and  plan  far  better  when 
moving  than  when  sitting  still,  and  as  formerly  she  had 
gone  for  long  walks  when  she  had  some  tangle  in  her  brain, 
she  now  often  went  hansoming. 

To-night,  however,  she  found  no  inspiration  in  the  easy 
movement.  Try  as  she  would  she  could  discern  no  way 
out  of  her  dilemma,  and  she  sat  back  in  her  corner  frown- 
ing hard  as  the  horse  threaded  his  impertinent  way  through 
the  crowds  of  Piccadilly. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  but  a  choice  of  evils;  that 
she  must  either  offend  the  dear  old  Duchess  or  open  for 
herself  the  door  to  a  way  full  of  pain  and  trouble.  She  no 
longer  loved  James  Peele,  but  she  had  so  loved  him  that 
the  scars  had  never  really  healed,  and  still  hurt  and  throbbed 
under  the  least  pressure. 

After  going  to  his  house  and  seeing  his  child  she  had  been 
miserable  for  weeks,  and  she  knew  that  if  brought  face  t) 
face  with  the  man  himself,  if  his  cold  eyes  should  look  again 
with  that  peculiar  softening,  into  hers,  the  old  memories 
would  rise  up  from  their  long  sleep  as  keenly  alive  as  ever. 
And  the  girl  had  suffered  much,  and  wished  to  be  happy. 
She  had  refused  Lensky  without  a  moment's  hesitation  be- 
cause, with  a  self-knowledge  very  rare  in  a  woman,  she 
knew  that  she  bore  Peele's  mark  and  would  bear  it  to  her 
grave.  She  had  never  seen  the  man  since  that  early  morn- 
ing in  Cornwall  when  she  had  bidden  him  good-bye  and  gsne 
her  lonely  way  into  the  unknown,  but  she  remembered  his 
face  with  an  appalling  distinctness,  and  feared  it  as  she 
feared  nothing  else  in  the  world. 


150  PAM    DECIDES 

And  if  she  went  to  the  dinner  she  must  see  it  again>  the 
keen,  thin  face  with  its  grey  eyes  that  looked  so  hard,  and 
that  she,  and,  she  instinctively  knew,  she  alone,  had  seen 
soften  with  tenderness  and  burn  with  passion. 

"  I  do  not  love  him  now,"  she  told  herself  sincerely,  "  but 
if  I  saw  him  again  I  should  love  him  again, — and  I  should 
rather  die  than  do  that.  But  what  can  I  do?  Oh,  if  I 
could  only  be  ill." 

Her  mind  was  so  intensely  concentrated  on  the  dilemma 
of  the  moment  that  she  did  not  realise  that  even  if  she 
could  devise  some  means  of  evading  the  dinner  the  next 
evening  it  would  be  but  a  postponement  of  the  moment  she 
dreaded. 

Bue  she  felt,  for  all  her  distress,  absolutely  well,  and  to 
feign  an  illness  did  not  occur  to  her. 

And  when,  at  about  ten  o'clock  she  went  to  bed  it  was 
with  the  consciousness  that  she  would  lie  awake  for  hours. 
The  fire-light  danced  on  the  white  panelling  and  painted 
queer  shadows  on  the  ceiling;  from  time  to  time  Big  Ben 
sang  a  fragment  or  the  whole  of  his  prayer;  the  old  house 
was  perfectly  still,  and  without  fear  Pam  told  herself  that 
now  was  the  time  when  the  little  gentle  ghosts  of  its  old 
inhabitants  no  doubt  stole  quietly  about  the  passages  and 
sat  on  the  chairs  they  had  loved  during  their  lives. 

And  Peele?  Must  she  see  him?  Must  she,  after  all  these 
years,  walk  of  her  own  accord  into  the  danger  that  his  pres- 
ence meant  to  her? 

Could  she  not  find  some  way  out?  If  she  wrote  to  him 
and  asked  him  frankly  not  to  go  to  the  dinner? 


PAM    DECIDES  151 

But  Pride  forbade  that. 

If  she  told  the  Duchess  that  she  did  not  wish  to  see  him? 
But  the  Duchess  would  ask  questions,  and  understand  more 
than  she  was  told. 

In  her  baldachined  bed  with  the  be-starred  silk  curtains 
Pam  tossed  and  turned,  too  warm  one  minute,  too  cold  the 
next,  miserable,  undecided,  helpless. 

At  last,  as  Big  Ben  told  her  that  it  was  two  o'clock,  she 
rose,  and  putting  on  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers  crept 
down  the  dark  stairs  towards  the  study.  She  would  get  a 
book  and  read  herself  to  sleep. 

The  ashes  in  the  fireplace  in  the  study  were  still  warm, 
she  saw,  when  she  had  taken  "  Tommy  and  Grizel "  from 
the  table.  One  stick  would  make  a  fire! 

So  kneeling,  a  little  grey  ghost,  on  the  rug,  she  worked 
until  a  wee  flame  was  fighting  its  way  into  life,  and  then, 
her  mind  back  with  her  problem,  knelt  on,  forgetting  where 
she  was. 

A  sudden  stealthy  sound  caused  her  to  turn,  and  with  a 
little  scream  she  fell  back.  A  man  stood  in  the  door  looking 
at  her.  "  D-don't  be  afraid,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  I  am  not 
a  burglar." 

"Then — what  are  you  doing  here?"  she  whispered,  her 
throat  dry,  as  she  rose,  drawing  her  dressing-gown  closer 
together. 

"  Well,— I  am  a  burglar,  then, — that  is, — but — I'll  go." 

He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  still  under  thirty,  apparently; 
his  clothes  were  wretchedly  ragged,  his  boots  broken,  his 
chin  dark  with  a  young  beard. 


152  PAM   DECIDES 

Pam  looked  at  him  and  fear  left  her.  "  What  do  you 
want?  "  she  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Anything  that  will  sell  for 
a  few  pounds.  Don't  be  frightened.  I  haven't  taken  any- 
thing -  " 

"  I  am  not  frightened.    You  —  you  are  a  gentleman." 

"  I  used  to  be  one;  yes.    Now  I'm  a  vagabond." 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"Yes.  but  -  ," 

"  Well,  —  there's  a  jug  of  milk  and  some  Plasmon  biscuits 
on  that  table  behind  you.  Help  yourself." 

The  man  stared.  "  Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  you 
are?  And  what's  become  of  old  Mother  Pounder?" 

"  I  own  this  house  ;  my  name  is  Yeoland.  Mrs.  Pounder 
has  gone."  As  she  spoke,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that 
her  visitor  must  be  the  man  who  had  sold  the  house  to 
Burke. 

"  You  are  Cyril  Wantage?  "  she  asked,  quietly. 

"  No.  My  name  is  —  Smith."  But  his  flush  had  betrayed 
him. 

"Drink  that  milk  then,  will  you?  And  listen  to  me. 
This  house  was  left  to  me  by  Mr.  Burke,  when  he 


"Old  Burke  dead?" 
"  Yes." 

Wantage  took  some  milk  and  drank  it. 
"  You  must  have  been  —  pretty  badly  off  to  get  to  —  this 
pitch,"  she  went  on.     "I  have  been  very  poor  myself;  so 


PAM    DECIDES  153 

poor  that  I've  had  to  pawn  things, — and  I  know  something 
about  poverty — and  I  will  help  you." 

"  This  is — a  queer  way  to  receive  a  burglar." 

He  appeared  to  be  an  irrepressibly  light-hearted  rascal, 
this  whilom  gentleman,  for  he  was  no  longer  embarrassed, 
but  had  sat  down  and  was  eating  biscuits  with  relish.  This 
mental  attitude  was  more  or  less  explained  by  the  bony 
structure  of  his  brow  and  jaw. 

"  You  haven't — burgled.  And  I  know  who  you  are. 
Mrs.  Pounder  told  me  about  you." 

"You — you  won't  tell  old  Pounder,  will  you?" 

"  No.  Now, — you  are  very  poor,  I  see.  Will  you  tell 
me — about  things  ?  " 

"  Yes.  May  I  sit  by  the  fire?  I've  been  in  a  cold  sweat 
ever  since  I  got  in, — by  the  way,  your  parlour-maid  ought 
to  get  the  sack.  She's  been  out  until  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
stood  talking  for  nearly  an  hour  with  her  young  man  at  the 
Chimes  Lane  door;  that's  how  I  got  in, — slipped  past  them. 
Well, — as  a  matter  of  fact  I  didn't  come  to  really — burgle, 
— but  to  take  one  or  two  things  of  my  own  that  I  forgot 
and  left  when  I  sold  the  place  to  old  Burke." 

"You  sold  the  house,  as  it  stood,  to  him,"  commented 
Pam,  drily. 

"  Yes,  but  there  were  one  or  two  things  that  my  mother 
gave  me  and  that — I  thought  I'd  get  and  sell." 

"What  are  they?" 

"  Well "  Mr.  Wantage  finished  the  milk,  turned  the 

jug  regretfully  upside  down  over  his  glass,  "there  was  a 


154  PAM   DECIDES 

set  of  ivory  chessmen,  an  ugly  old  tea-pot,  and  some  other 
things." 

Evidently  relieved  beyond  all  reason  by  the  reception  he 
had  met  with,  he  told  his  story,  whitewashing  himself  more 
to  himself  than  to  his  hostess.  "  I  told  Burke  at  the  time 
that  I'd  want  these  things  some  day,  but  when  I  had  the 
money  I  forgot  all  about  'em,  so  you  see  they  really  are 
mine." 

"  I'll  take  your  word  for  that.  But  why  didn't  you  come 
and  ask  for  them. " 

"  Well, — you  see,  I've  gone  down  in  the  world  a  good 
deal,  and — I  didn't  like  to  see  old  Pounder;  she'd  have  told 
my  aunt.  I  suppose,"  he  added  with  what  he  evidently 
believed  to  be  an  engaging  candour,  "  I  was  ashamed.  I 
didn't  intend  to  break  in  here,  when  I  came  out  to-night; 
I  just  walked  past  the  house, — it's  a  habit  I've  got — and — • 
when  the  chance  came,  I — seized  it.  You  are  very  good  to 
take  it  so  quietly,  and — I'm  glad  I  didn't  take  the  things. 
I'd  have  been  sorry  to-morrow,  I  suppose.  But — I  give  you 
my  word  the  things  are  mine,  and  I  did  tell  old  Burke  about 
'em — perhaps  you'd  let  me  have  'em?  You  see,  I've  been 
without  work  for  weeks,  and — my  wife's  ill." 

Pam's  heart  contracted  with  pity,  not  for  this  light- 
hearted  young  scoundrel,  but  for  his  wife. 

"  You  have  a  wife  ?  " 

His  face  grew  serious.  "  I  have  an  angel  of  a  wife,"  he 
said,  with  a  certain  dignity.  "  She's  a  lady — the  daughter  of 
a  clergyman  in  America,  and  when  I  got  so  bad  and  they 
offered  to  take  her  back,  she — refused.  She's  got — 'Consump- 


PAM   DECIDES  155 

tion,  and  is  dying  for  lack  of  the  things  I  can't  get  for  her. 
Even  when  I  try  to  steal  for  her,"  he  added  with  a  grace- 
less but  somehow  pathetic  grin,  "  I  seem  to  fail." 

Pam,  who  had  sat  down,  rose. 

"  I  have  given  away  the  teapot,"  she  said,  "  but  I'll  have 
it  valued  and  give  you  the  money.  I  will  also  see  what  I 
can  do  to  help  your  wife.  You  must  go  now,  but  if 
you  give  me  your  address,  I'll  come  to  see  her  early  to-mor- 
row morning." 

"Will  you,  really?  It  is  good  of  you.  Poor  Mary.  I 
have  tried  to  work,  honour  bright  I  have,  but  I'm  an  all- 
round  failure,  you  see " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Pam,  with  a  not  unkindly  laugh,  "  I 
do  see!  And  I  am  awfully  sorry  for  her.  What's  the 
address?" 

"  No.  7  Snow  Street, — just  off  Smith  Street." 

She  wrote  the  address  on  a  bit  of  paper,  and  then,  opening 
a  drawer  took  from  it  a  sovereign  and  gave  it  to  him. 

' '  On  account,'  "  she  said,  to  spare  his  feelings.  But  he 
only  laughed.  "  This  ought  to  make  a  good  short  story, 
oughtn't  it?" 

She  let  him  out  into  the  raw  night,  and  then  went  back 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER   VII 

SNOW  Street  seemed,  in  its  muddiness,  its  dinginess,  and 
above  all  in  the  uncandid  air  of  its  swarming  inhabitants, 
curiously  ill-named.  Pam,  attired  in  one  of  her  oldest  skirts 
and  jackets,  and  a  hat  at  which  her  house-maid  had  stared 
in  scornful  surprise,  reached  No.  7  at  about  half-past  nine 
on  the  morning  after  her  interview  with  Wantage. 

Her  problem  about  the  Duchess'  dinner  was  still  un- 
solved, but  in  turning  her  whole  attention  to  the  question 
of  being  of  use  to  the  unfortunate  woman  who  had  married 
the  irresponsible  Mr.  Wantage  she  had  found  the  kind  of 
relief  experienced  by  a  person  with  an  indigestion  who  sud- 
denly changes  his  diet. 

It  was  quite  possible  that  Wantage,  under  the  pressure  of 
his  debts,  had  left  many  things  in  the  house  that  he  would, 
on  reflection,  have  kept,  and  it  seemed  to  Pam  as  she  went 
up  the  filthy  stairs  of  No.  7  that  these  things,  or  their  equiva- 
lent, ought  in  common  justice  to  be  given  to  him.  He  lived, 
he  had  said,  on  the  third  floor  of  the  house,  and  after  knock- 
ing twice  at  the  wrong  door,  she  found  the  room. 

It  was  a  sickening  place  in  which  to  find  a  lady.  Beyond 
the  bed,  two  chairs,  and  a  table,  there  was  no  furniture,  and 
the  dirty  floor  was  not  even  whole.  Pam  had  been  in  worse 
rooms,  but  their  inhabitants  had  been  very  different  from 
the  girl  in  the  bed. 


PAM    DECIDES  157 

"You  are  Mrs.  Wantage?"  she  asked,  a  knot  In  her 
throat. 

"  Yes.  And — you  are — the  lady  who  has  Cyril's  old 
home.  He  told  me  that  he  had  been  to  see  you." 

Pam  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside.  She  was  not  a  born 
nurse,  and  if  her  life  had  been  the  ordinary  one  of  well- 
bred  girls  she  would  doubtless  have  had  a  decided  dislike  for 
sick  people  and  sickrooms.  But  she  had  learned  through 
seeing  suffering,  to  have  a  very  poignant  and  active  pity  for 
it,  and  as  she  took  in  hers  the  hot  hand  held  out  to  her,  she 
slipped  her  left  arm  under  the  sick  woman's  head  and  turned 
her  pillow. 

"Oh,  thank  you!" 

Mrs.  Wantage  smiled  gratefully  at  her,  but  it  was  the 
smile  of  an  equal,  and  Pam  realised  with  a  pang  of  relief 
that  Cyril  Wantage  had  not  lied.  His  wife  was  a  lady. 

And  full-grown,  perfect  in  every  detail,  Pam's  plan  sprung 
from  her  astonished  brain  to  her  lips. 

"  Your  husband  left  a  lot  of  his  things  in  the  house  when 
he  sold  it,"  she  said,  sitting  down,  "  so  I  owe  him  a  good 
deal  of  money.  Rather  pleasant  for  you,  isn't  it,  though  hard 
on  me!  Now  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  get  you  out  of 
this,  and  I  have  a  grand  idea.  Will  it  bore  you  to  listen  to 
a  letter  I  received  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Oh, — of  course  not " 

"  *  Dear  Miss  Yeoland,'  "  read  Pam,  taking  the  letter  from 
her  pocket,  " '  I  write  to  tell  you  that  I  am  very  well,  and 
nicely  settled  in  the  house,  which  is  very  comfortable.  I  have 


158  PAM    DECIDES 

three  large  rooms  for  lodgers  and  shall  be  so  glad  when  sum- 
mer comes  and  you  come.  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the 
carpet  you  gave  me.  It  is  very  useful.  It  is  very  warm 
here,  and  two  of  my  rooms  look  out  over  the  sea.  I  hope 
you  are  well  and  am  yours  respectfully, 

" '  MARTHA  POUNDER.' 

"This  Mrs.  Pounder  was  your  husband's  housekeeper, 
and  then  Mr.  Burke's  caretaker.  I  couldn't  keep  her,  so  she 
has  gone  back  to  her  native  village,  and  as  you  see  wants 
lodgers.  Now  Mrs.  Wantage, — I'm  going  to  take  you  down 
to  Bumblemouth  this  very  day.  Will  you  come?  " 

Mary  Wantage  cried  for  a  long  time,  but  hers  were  the 
kind  of  tears  that  hurt  neither  the  shedder  nor  the  beholder, 
and  when  her  husband  came  in  a  few  minutes  later  with  the 
breakfast  he  had  gone  out  to  buy,  he  found  her  partly 
dressed  and  sitting  on  the  bed  while  Pam  combed  her  long, 
fine  hair. 

Irreclaimably  happy-go-lucky  and  weak  though  he  was, 
and  convinced  though  Pam  felt  that,  if  she  had  not  caught 
him  the  night  before,  he  would  have  helped  himself  to  any 
of  her  possessions  that  he  might  have  fancied,  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  really  devoted  to,  and  appreciative  of  his  wife. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  Pam  gave  a  bald  outline  of 
her  plan,  and  then  when  he  had  built  up  the  fire  and  bor- 
rowed a  kettle  from  a  neighbour,  he  made  tea  and  sitting 
on  the  bed  fed  it  by  spoonsful  to  the  invalid,  in  the  tenderest 
manner. 

"  You  must  get  some  better  clothes,  and  some  boots,"  re- 


PAM    DECIDES  159 

marked  Pam  after  a  while,  "and  when  you  have  got  them 
on,  go  to — my  house  and  ask  to  see  my  maid,  Pilgrim.  I'll 
write  her  a  note  if  you  have  any  paper." 

The  note,  asking  Pilgrim  to  give  to  the  bearer  a  certain 
jacket  and  hat  of  her  mistress',  being  written,  and  some 
money  having  been  transferred  from  Pam's  pocket  to 
Wantage's,  he  departed,  and  the  two  women  were  again 
alone. 

"  He  is  so  good  to  me, — you  have  no  idea,"  began  his  wife, 
with  a  certain  air  almost  of  pride.  "  And  things  have  gone 
so  badly!  He  has  been  out  of  work  for  months,  and  the 
worse  his  clothes  got,  of  course  the  less  chance  he  had  of 
finding  anything  to  do." 

"What  can  he  do?" 

"Well, — he  writes  a  beautiful  hand  (he  can't  keep  ac- 
counts), and  he  was  in  a  shop  in  Victoria  Street  for  a  while, 
but — he  made  mistakes.  Then  he  tried  being  waiter  in  a 
restaurant,  poor  boy,  but  someone  was  rude  to  him  and  he 
left.  He  is  the  best  natured  man  in  the  world,  but  he  is 
sensitive  and — it's  always  harder  for  a  gentleman  to  be- 
come a  common  man  than  for  a  common  man  to  become  a 
gentleman." 

Pam  thought  that  she  understood.  She  knew  too  much 
of  human  nature,  young  though  she  was,  to  entertain  any 
hopes  of  reforming  the  former  owner  of  her  house.  He  was, 
she  saw,  a  kindly,  not  unintelligent  youth  with  a  gentle 
manner  and  a  merry  heart  who  could  never  do  more  than 
drift  with  the  stream.  If  his  stream  had  been  the  placid  one 
of  even  comparative  affluence,  his  career  might  have  been 


160  PAM   DECIDES 

an  apparently  successful  one,  but  the  turbulent  waters  of 
poverty  had  wrecked  him,  for  he  was  rudderless  and  without 
a  compass. 

When  he  came  back,  dressed  in  a  cheap  suit  of  dark  blue 
clothes  with  a  collar  and  a  tie,  his  chin  cleared  of  the  dis- 
figuring stubble,  she  took  her  leave,  and  an  hour  later,  having 
sent  a  note  to  the  Duchess  explaining  that  she  was  leaving 
town  with  a  sick  friend,  she  stopped  in  a  four-wheeler  at  No. 
7  Snow  Street,  picked  up  her  proteges,  and  passing  her  own 
door  and  adding  Pilgrim  to  the  party,  told  the  cabby  to  go 
to  Victoria  Station. 

She  had,  for  the  moment,  evaded  the  annoyances  that  had 
threatened  to  beset  her,  and  this  thought  lent  a  keener  edge 
to  her  pleasure  in  helping  the  poor  little  girl  around  whom 
she  held  her  arm,  to  support  her  when  the  terrible  coughing 
fits  came. 

"  Pilly,"  she  said,  as  they  reached  the  station,  "  do  you 
remember  how  Father  used  to  call  our  wanderings  '  Pilgrim's 
Progress '  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  WEEK  had  passed,  and  Pam  was  still  at  Mrs.  Pounder's 
in  Bumblemouth. 

The  village,  straggling  and  world-forgotten,  lay  near  the 
centre  of  a  cosily  encircling  crescent  whose  seaward-stretch- 
ing arms  formed  a  barrier  against  the  east  wind.  Seen  from 
the  downs  over  which  one  drove  from  the  station,  it  looked 
like  a  clumsily  sprawling  spider  with  many  legs  and  only 
three  feet — the  feet  being  small  clusters  of  cottages  that  had 
withdrawn  themselves  from  that  great  centre  of  life,  Bum- 
blemouth proper,  and  formed  themselves  into  settlements 
under  the  names  of  Little,  South,  and  East  Bumblemouth. 
Mrs.  Pounder, — she  was  a  born  Scuddle,  and  the  Scuddles 
are  of  the  best  local  blood — had  rented  a  house  in  Little 
Bumblemouth;  a  small  but  comfortable  cottage  near  the 
Church  and  therefore  highly  desirable  for  lodgers. 

About  two  miles  away  some  big  London  doctor  had  built 
a  sanatorium  and,  there  being  no  satisfactory  inn  within  easy 
distance  of  it,  friends  of  the  inmates,  and  friends  of  those 
friends  who  were  desirous  of  cheap  sea  air,  quartered  them- 
selves on  the  villagers,  a  profitable  arrangement  for  every- 
body, so  that  the  place  was  now  beginning  to  be  known  as 
an  excellent  substitute  for  more  expensive  ones  farther  south. 

Mrs.  Pounder's  joy  over  her  first  batch  of  lodgers  was 
great.  Mr.  Cyril,  who  after  long  being,  in  her  imagination, 

161 


1 62  PAM   DECIDES 

dead  and  buried,  now  turned  up  buoyant  and  full  of  jokes, 
was  to  her  something  between  a  god  and  a  delightfully  wild 
young  man;  and  his  wife,  poor  gentle  little  Mary,  only 
second  to  him. 

Pam,  not  belonging  to  the  family,  was  of  course  inferior 
to  them  both,  but,  in  her  character  of  open-handed  capitalist, 
and  the  beneficent  goddess  who  had  whisked  the  adored  ones 
hither  in  her  car,  also  greatly  to  be  considered. 

Her  curious  habits  surprised  but  did  not  greatly  trouble 
the  philosophical  Mrs.  Pounder,  who  rinding  that  when  Miss 
Yeoland  was  late  for  her  meals  she  consumed  without  pro- 
test their  leathery  remains  and  never  asked  for  the  usual 
omelette,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  though  obviously  not 
quite  sane,  the  young  lady  had  her  good  points  beside  that 
of  reuniting  faithful  old  servants  and  their  long-lost  masters. 

Mary  Wantage  lay  day  after  day  on  the  sofa  near  her 
window,  her  hollow  eyes  half-closed,  her  husband  reading 
aloud  or  talking  to  her.  And  he,  when  he  was  tired  of  sitting 
still  used  to  go  and  chat  with  the  old  fishermen  on  the 
quay.  They  all  swore  by  him  after  the  first  day,  and  learn 
ing  from  Mrs.  Pounder  something  of  what  he  himself  called 
his  hard-luck  story,  looked  on  the  unconscious  Pam  mort 
or  less  as  the  cuckoo  in  the  nest. 

"  You'll  have  to  work,  you  know,"  Pam  said  to  him,  one 
day,  when  he  had  joined  her  on  her  way  home  from  a 
walk,  "  I  am  poor  myself  and  can't  support  you." 

"Of  course!  I've  been  answering  a  lot  of  'ads'  this 
morning.  The  trouble  is  I  am  such  an  ignorant  beggar!  I 
couldn't  add  up  a  column  to  save  my  life,  and  that  seems  to 


PAM   DECIDES  163 

be  the  way  the  greater  part  of  Britain's  youth  earns  its 
bread  and  cheese." 

"  There  are  other  ways,  however,  and — bread  and  cheese 


is  necessary 


Pam,  her  hands  in  her  pockets,  walked  very  fast;  her 
,  cheeks  were  pink  with  the  sea-wind. 

Wantage  laughed,  a  gentle,  chuckling  laugh.  *  I  don't 
like  bread,  either;  and  I  loath  cheese.  Isn't  it  shocking?" 

He  looked  very  well  after  his  week  of  comfortable  fare; 
his  unforceful  face  was  pleasant  and  shrewd  and  apparently 
without  a  care  behind  it. 

Did  he  remember,  Pam  wondered,  that  eight  days  before 
he  had  feloniously  entered  her  house  with  Intent  to  steal,  and 
been  caught  by  her? 

"  I  was  talking  to  the  doctor  an  hour  ago,"  she  began  again 
as  he  whistled  "  Pansy  Faces,"  "  and  he  says  Mary  must  not 
think  of  going  back  to  town  before  the  spring." 

"Yes,  he  told  me,  too.  Poor  old  Pounder  will  be  glad, 
won't  she?" 

"  Yes.  But — poor  old  Pounder  must  be  paid,"  observed 
Pam  drily.  She  could  not  help  enjoying  this  cheerful  dere- 
lict, but  he  annoyed  her. 

"  Paid  ?    Of  course  she  must." 

"  But  who  is  going  to  pay  her, — you  or — I  ?  " 

He  burst  out  laughing  and  taking  a  cigarette  from  his 
pocket,  paused  to  light  it.  "  I  may  smoke  ?  Well,  upon  my 
word,  Miss  Yeoland,  as  things  are  at  present,  I — I  am  afraid 
you  are ! " 

Pam  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his  pleasant  facf 


164  PAM   DECIDES 

"  Look  here,  Cyril,"  she  said,  speaking  to  him  as  she  had 
done  from  the  first,  as  though  she  was  much  his  senior,  in- 
stead of  two  years  his  junior.  "  I  have  just  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  and  that  house  to  keep  on  it.  I  can't — and  I 
won't — support  you." 

Not  in  the  least  offended,  he  nodded.  "  Of  course  not, 
of  course  not,"  he  murmured,  soothingly,  "  I've  got  to  work. 
I  hate  it,  but  I  mean  to  do  it.  Don't  think  I'm  not  grateful 
to  you,  for  I  am.  You've  been  an  angel  to  us.  The 
trouble  is  that  I  insist  on  looking  on  myself  as  a  gentleman, 
and  that  you,  although  you  struggle  against  it,  can't  help 
regarding  me  as  a  burglar.  Well, — I  may  be  wrong,  but 
you  certainly  are.  My  coming  into  your  house  was  merely 
an  impulse,  you  must  remember,  and — I  had  been  drinking. 
Oh,  I  wasn't  drunk,  as  you  know,  but  I  had  had  enough 
to  think  I  really  had  a  right  to  go  in  and  take  the 
things  that  really  do  belong  to  me.  I'm  not  a  thief,  Miss 
Yeoland." 

Pam  was  puzzled. 

"  Let's  not  talk  about  that,"  she  said,  "  it  makes  me  un- 
comfortable— even  if  it  doesn't  you!  I  only  wanted  to  tell 
you  this.  I'll  pay  your  wife's  room  and  so  on,  and  her  doctor, 
until  the  spring,  but  you  must  get  work  and  look  after  your- 
self and  see  about  making  some  kind  of  a  home  for  her  say 
— in  April.  And  you  mustn't  forget — the  baby?  " 

"  Of  course  I  shan't  forget  the  baby!  And  you'll  be  god- 
mother, won't  you?" 

"  Yes.  I  have  promised  Mary.  And  do  please  buck  up 
as  you  say  and  realise  that  by  April  you  must  have  at  least 


PAM    DECIDES  165 

a  room  for  her.  She  absolutely  refuses  to — to  stay  down 
here.  She  wants  you  to  be  with  her  of  course." 

"  Of  course.  And  if  I — fail  in  getting  work, — when  April 
comes  you'll  let  her  starve !  "  He  laughed  softly  and  waggled 
his  head  comically  at  her.  "Oh,  you  hard-hearted  person! 
Well,  I'll  go  back  to  Babylon  and  see  what  I  can  do.  Will 
you  lend  me  ten  pounds  to  go  on  with?  " 

Pam  had  anticipated  this  request  and  was  prepared  with 
her  answer.  "  No,  I'll  not.  I'll  never  lend  you  a  penny," 
she  answered  severely,  "  and  I  will  not  give  you  the  china 
and  things  to  sell.  I  believe  that  they  are  yours,  but  you  are 
such  a — such  a  goose,  that  you  need  a  guardian,  and  for 
Mary's  sake  I'm  going  to  be  that  guardian!  I'll  give  you 
five  pounds  now,  and  when  you  have  got  some  work,  I'll 
give  you  a  week-end  ticket  down  here  every  fortnight.  And 
I'll  not  give  you  one  penny  more.  Understand  ?  " 

He  understood,  and  appeared  to  be  outrageously  cheerful 
in  the  prospect. 

He  was  altogether  a  preposterous  person,  and  the  girl 
knew  that  he  could  in  the  nature  of  things  never  be  much 
better,  but  her  heart  invariably  softened  to  him  when  she 
saw  him  with  his  wife,  for  he  loved  her  and  cared  for  hei 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  gentle  woman,  and  her  belief  in  him 
was  so  great  that  when  they  talked  together  of  the  future 
he  gained  a  very  pathetic  kind  of  transitory  dignity  that 
made  Pam  miserable. 

After  ten  days  or  so  he  left  Bumblemouth  for  London, 
where  he  was  to  see  one  or  two  people  who  had  by  the  means 
of  the  press  expressed  needs  that  he  might  be  hoped  to  fill, 


1 66  PAM   DECIDES 

and  after  seeing  his  departure  (with  two  roast  fowls  and  a 
huge  plum  cake,  gifts  of  the  sorrowing  Pounder,  in  his 
portmanteau),  Pam  left  his  wife  and  the  landlady  to  talk 
over  his  excellent  qualities  together,  and  went  for  a  walk. 

She  too  must  soon  return  to  town,  and  as  yet  her  future 
looked  chaotic.  The  time  had  come  when  she  must  definitely 
make  up  her  mind. 

The  Wantages  had  occupied  that  mind  for  many  days, 
and  had  thus  been  a  boon  to  her,  but  now  she  must  dismiss 
them  and  open  the  doors  to  the  question  of  her  future  man- 
ner of  life. 

Should  she  decide  to  live  as  an  eccentric  elderly  girl, 
accepting  no  invitations  to  houses  where  she  might  meet 
James  Peele,  cribbing  and  confining  herself  out  of  fear  of 
him?  Or  should  she  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  and  boldly 
go  to  the  Duchess's,  where  she  would  certainly  meet  him,  and 
trust  her  own  common  sense  to  carry  her  through  the  ordeal  ? 

As  she  walked  over  the  downs  towards  the  southern  tip 
of  the  crescent  within  which  Bumblemouth  lay,  she  asked 
herself  these  questions  over  and  over  again. 

She  did  not  love  James  Peele,  she  declared,  but  she  had 
loved  him;  she  had  never,  even  in  the  most  visionary  way, 
loved  another  man,  and  she  still  feared  his  power  over  her. 

Years  ago,  when  almost  a  child,  she  had  been  shrewd 
enough  to  see  the  man  as  he  really  was,  and,  at  the  last,  to 
despise  him,  and  now  she  understood  even  more  fully  the 
extent  of  his  impulsive  baseness  in  the  crucial  moment  to 
which  her  own  folly  had  paved  the  way,  and  he  had  so 
cruelly  failed  her. 


PAM    DECIDES  167 

Half  of  the  time  she  had  lived  had  passed  since  then,  and 
she  had  not  wasted  it  in  idle  dreaming.  For  weeks  at  a 
time,  she  had  not  given  him  a  thought,  and  his  memory  had 
grown  less  and  less  poignant  until  she  had  believed  herself 
to  have  almost  forgotten  him. 

Then  her  visit  to  his  house  had  roused  in  her  the  old 
fear  of  seeing  him,  and  now  she  must  decide  what  was  best 
for  her  to  do.     If  only  there  was  someone  who  could  advise 
her!     Never  before  in  her  life  had  she  so  longed  to  sink  he- 
own  will  in  another's. 

Having  reached  the  end  of  her  walk  she  was  staring  at 
the  tumbling  grey  waves  before  her.  "  I  never  could  make 
anyone  believe  that  I  don't  love  him,"  she  thought  despon- 
dently, "  and  yet — God  knows  I  don't.  I  wish, — oh,  I 
wish " 

As  she  turned  to  go  back  she  found  herself,  as  she  had 
found  herself  that  day  in  St.  Giles'  Churchyard,  face  to  face 
with  de  Lensky. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  cried,  feeling  at  the 
sight  of  his  placid  face  as  if  all  her  troubles  were  over.  "  So 
glad !  "  He  seemed  such  a  refuge  from  worry,  so  above  all 
mental  see-sawing,  so  strong  and  sane  and  serene,  that  she 
clung  to  his  hand  with  both  hers  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
relief,  the  chill  sun  lighting  wee  warm  lamps  in  her  eyes. 
"  How  did  you  know  where  I  was?  " 

"  I  asked  the  Duchess.  I  am  going  to  Poland  to-morrow, 
— on  business,  and  I  wanted  to  ^ee  you  first.  What  is  the 
matter?" 

"  Nothing, — everything.     But  I  can't  talk  about  it,"  she 


1 68  PAM    DECIDES 

answered  hurriedly,  the  reticence  of  years  binding  her 
tongue. 

He  stood  still,  looking  close  into  her  face. 

"  You  are  bothered,"  he  said,  "  and  things  are  going 
wrong.  Why  don't  you  marry  me  and  let  me  take  care  of 
you?" 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes.  Look  here ;  you  like  me  so  much  that  you  would 
soon  learn  to  Icve  me, — for  you  love  no  one  else." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  slowly,  "  It  is 
that  that  is  worrying  me.  I  don't  love  him;  I  give  you  my 
word  I  don't,  but  I  did  love  him,  and — I  am  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what,  my  dear?  " 

"  Of  seeing  him.    What  if  I  should — again  ?  " 

"  I  see.    Do  you  like  him?  " 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  respect  him  ?  " 

"  No.  But — he — he  charmed  me, — his  eyes, — his  manner 
— and  if  I  live  in  London  I  shall  have  to  see  him " 

Lensky  took  her  two  hands  in  his.    "  Marry  me,"  he  said. 

"  But " 

"  I  accept  all  the  buts, — and  all  the  risks.    Marry  me." 

"  If — if  you  don't  love  me  very  much,"  she  answered, 
"  I  might ;  but  if  you  did, — it  would  be  dreadful." 

"Would  it?" 

"  Yes." 

He  smiled  tenderly  at  her.  "  Do  you  think  that  I  love 
you  too  much  ?  Does  my  emotionality  bore  you  ?  " 

She  burst  out  laughing.    "  No,  no !  " 


PAM   DECIDES  169 

"  Then  marry  me.  But  first,  listen.  I  have  been,  as  you 
know,  a  gambler;  I  have  wasted  most  of  my  patrimony; 
I  have  done  many  things  that  I  could  not  tell  you;  I  have 
also — drunk." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  marry  a  gambler,  a — roue  and  a 
drunkard  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  very  softly,  his  face  suffused  with 
an  innocent,  rosy  blush,  "  I  want  you  to  marry  a  man  who 
will  never  again  touch  a  card,  do  an  unworthy  thing,  or 
drink  a  drop  more  than  is  good  for  him." 

Here  was  strength,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

Pam  looked  at  him,  meeting  his  earnest  eyes.  "  Then — 
I  have  told  you  all  about  it,"  she  said  slowly,  "  and — if  you 
still  do  really  want  me,  I  will." 


CHAPTER   IX 

AT  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  having  accompanied 
Lensky  to  the  station  and  then  lunched  with  poor  lonely 
Mary  Wantage,  Pam  was  sitting  on  one  of  a  flight  of  steps 
roughly  cut  into  the  cliff  leading  to  the  most  eastward  bit 
of  beach  in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  wind  had  gone  down,  and  a  pale  film  of  sunlight 
lay  on  the  grey  waters  on  which  the  girl's  unseeing  eyes 
rested. 

She  sat  very  still,  her  bare  hands  with  loose-curled  fin- 
gers on  her  knees. 

For  hours  her  surprise  at  having  promised  to  marry 
Lensky  was  more  than  equalled  by  the  strange  uplifting  of 
spirit  contingent  on  that  decision.  She  so  thoroughly  liked 
the  man,  he  was  so  congenial  to  her,  and  her  admiration  for 
him  so  unqualified,  that  she  had  felt  that  she  had,  after  long 
buffetings  by  wind  and  rain,  reached  home  at  last.  Life 
looked  simple  and  pleasant  to  her,  and  things  that  only  yes- 
terday seemed  serious  troubles,  had  now  dwindled  into  petty 
worries  that  could  not  live  in  his  presence. 

And  as  she  walked  out  to  this  lonely  place  her  happiness 
almost  attained  the  height  of  prayer. 

But  now,  quite  deliberately  she  sat  and  called  back  to  her 
mind  all  the  things  she  had  for  years  tried  to  banish  from 
it.  Old  scenes,  old  phrases,  old  joys  and  old  pains.  From 
the  very  beginning  she  recalled  her  acquaintance  with  Ttune.s 


PAM    DECIDES  171 

Peele,  and  with  a  curious  conscientiousness,  tried  to  weigh 
the  whole  matter  in  the  scales  of  justice.  For  the  last  time, 
she  was  contemplating  the  memory  of  dead  things,  and  she 
wished  to  be  most  fair  in  every  thought. 

At  last,  with  a  deep  sigh  she  said  aloud,  "  It  was  really 
chiefly  my  own  fault,  and  he  did  no  more  than  act  accord- 
ing to  his  own  nature.  And  now, — good-bye.  I  will  never, 
so  long  as  I  live,  again  think  about  it.  And  I  will  be  happy. 
Ghosts,"  she  continued  mentally,  "  haunt  only  empty  rooms, 
and  now  my  rooms  will  be  filled." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  she  changed  her  position,  and  clasp- 
ing her  knees,  her  thoughts  hurried  along  the  pleasant  path 
in  which  she  had  set  them.  On  and  on  they  flew,  like  a 
flock  of  birds,  and  a  soft  crimson  flush  came  to  her  cheeks  as 
suddenly  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with — a  cradle.  She 
was,  whether  or  not  altogether,  a  wife-woman,  essentially  a 
mother-woman,  and  her  eyes  were  wet  as  she  thought  with 
a  little  shiver  in  her  breast  "  I  hope  we'll  have  four  or  five — 
all  boys  but  one,  and  she  will  be  the  littlest,  so  that  they 
may  learn  to  be  tender  and  chivalrous — like  him." 

It  was  a  pity  that  Lensky  could  not  see  her  face  then. 
1 '  And  of  his  porte  as  meke  as  is  mayde,'  "  she  repeated, 
aloud ;  "  '  my  very  parfit  gentil  knight ! ' ' 

She  was  so  happy  as  she  sat  there,  and  so  grateful  to  this 
man  who  made  her  so,  that  she  began  planning  all  kinds  of 
littlp  comforts  for  him. 

They  would  live  in  her  house,  and  the  Oak  Hall  with  the 
Little  Cowley  Street  door  should  be  his.  Only  he  should 
have  a  key  to  this  door,  and  the  hall  should  be  his  study. 


172  PAM   DECIDES 

Loving  liberty  as  she  did,  she  had  the  most  unfeminine 
respect  for  the  liberty  of  others,  and  his  should  be  boundless. 
She  would  live  in  the  White  Study, — joined  to  his  room  by 
the  narrow  passage  with  a  door  at  each  end.  And  upstairs, 
behind  her  bedroom,  the  long  room  with  two  windows, — 
there  the  fast-accumulating  cradles  and  little  beds  should 
stand. 

And  with  him  she  would  be  so  gentle,  so  unselfish.  He 
liked  society,  and  he  should  have  it ;  he  enjoyed  his  clubs,  and 
she  would  encourage  him  to  go  to  them ;  he  loved  music,  and 
she  would  go  with  him  to  operas  and  concerts,  or  make  him  go 
with  people  who  better  appreciated  the  beauties  to  which  her 
ears  were  deaf.  He  should  smoke  everywhere;  cedar-lined 
boxes  of  little  Russian  cigarettes  should  stand  in  every  room, 
and  large,  sensible  ash-trays. 

And  when  he  had  headaches,  as  she  knew  he  occasionally 
did,  she  would  soothe  away  the  pain  with  her  finger-tips. 

A  quick  frown  passed  over  her  heavy  brows  at  this  thought, 
for  long  ago,  in  an  old-fashioned  garden  in  Derbyshire,  she 
had  thus  soothed  pain  from  James  Peele's  head. 

But  the  image  of  the  man  her  just  standard  of  moral 
measurement  had  long  since  rejected  as  undersized  died 
quickly  away,  giving  place  to  that  of  him  who,  she  thought, 
as  she  rose  and  went  up  the  ladder-like  steps,  loved  '  chyvalrie, 
trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  courtesie.' 

And  the  feeling  that  Lensky  gave  her,  a  feeling  of  peace, 
mirth,  and  something  best  to  be  described  as  mental  cosiness, 
stayed  with  her,  lending  fleetness  to  her  feet  and  lightness 
to  her  heart. 


PAM    DECIDES  173 

"  Pilly,"  she  cried,  coming  into  her  room  where  the  old 
woman  sat  knitting  by  the  lamp,  "  guess  what  has 
happened  ?  " 

Pilly  did  not  answer,  but  her  scarlet  gloss  of  countenance 
and  purpleness  of  nose  proving  her  to  have  been  crying,  Pam 
went  on,  severely,  "  Pilly,  you  have  been  howling.  Well, — 
I  suppose  you  felt  teary,  but  now  you  must  feel  laughy.  I 
have  the  most  wonderful  news  for  you,  dear!  " 

"You  needn't  bother  to  tell  me,  Pam,"  returned  the 
afflicted  one,  with  a  loud  sniff;  "  I  know.  'E  came  'ere  first, 
and  it  was  me  told  'im  where  to  find  you." 

Pam,  in  spite  of  her  intimate  knowledge  of  the  intricacies 
of  Pilgrim's  nature,  was  dumbfounded. 

"  Well,— but  aren't  you  glad?  "  she  cried.  "  Why,  Pilly, 
you  have  been  hoping  it  since  the  first  time  he  came  to  Hunt- 
ley  Street,  you  know  you  have, — and  scheming,  too,  in  your 
nefarious  old  way." 

Rushing  at  the  old  woman,  she  hugged  her  vigorously,  and 
then  sat  down  on  the  lap  that,  however  bony  it  may  have 
been,  had  always  been  to  her  a  refuge. 

"  Don't  spoil  it  all  by  being  weepy,  will  you,  Pilly?  "  she 
coaxed.  "  I  am  so  happy !  And  you  know  you  hated  my 
being  an  old  maid.  Come,  buck  up,  like  a  dear,  and  wish  me 
joy.  You  know  you  like  him !  " 

Pilgrim  kissed  her. 

"  I  do, — indeed  I  do,  Pam, — but — it  comes  hard  to  lose 
you  after  all  these  years." 

"  But  you're  not  losing  me,  goose !  " 

After  a  few  minutes  she  succeeded  in  comforting  the  old 


i74  PAM    DECIDES 

woman,  and  sent  her  down  stairs  full  of  maternal  pride  in 
her  nursling's  new  dignity. 

Pam  sat  down  by  the  fire.  Pilgrim,  she  knew,  had  known 
something  about  Peele,  but  they  had  never  talked  the  matter 
over.  The  girl  would  have  liked  to  tell  the  faithful  servant 
who  had  mothered  her  so  long  that  that  ghost  was  now  for- 
ever laid,  but  the  reticence  born  in  her  and  encouraged  by 
the  nature  of  her  life  still  sealed  her  lips. 

"  When  she  sees  that  I  am  really  happy,"  she  decided, 
"  she'll  know." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Pounder  came  in  with  a  telegram,  and 
Pam  sat  for  a  moment  staring  blankly  at  the  orange-coloured 
envelope.  What  if  he  had  changed  his  mind,  and  she  was 
not  to  be  happy  after  all  ? 

Then,  with  a  laugh  at  her  own  absurdity,  she  tore  open 
the  wire  and  read  it.  "To  be  operated  to-morrow;  Hen- 
rietta suddenly  ill;  unable  to  come.  Please  come.  Eliza 
Wight." 


CHAPTER   X 

REACHING  London  at  about  five  the  next  morning,  Pam 

went    home,    and   tumbling   into   bed,    slept   until    Pilgrim 

awakened  her  at  half-past  eight. 

"  There's  a  letter,  Miss  Pam, — and  'ere's  your  tea." 
Pam  sat  up  in  bed,  and  tearing  open  the  letter  read  it, 

while  she  hastily  swallowed  her  matutinal  draught. 

"  MY  DEAR  PAM — I  received  your  wire  last  night,  but  am 
very  sorry  I  can't  come  to  you  this  morning  before  I  leave, 
for  not  knowing  that  you  were  to  be  in  town,  I  of  course 
had  already  made  one  or  two  engagements.  Au  revoir,  my 
dear.  If  all  goes  well,  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  week. 
Once  more  I  thank  you  for  the  great  honour  you  have 
done  me. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  JEAN  DE  LENSKY." 

i 

Surprisingly  disappointed  by  this  communication,  Pam 
dressed  and  set  out  for  Berkeley  Square.  She  had  so  looked 
forward  to  seeing  Lensky,  if  only  for  a  moment,  before  he 
left.  There  were  several  things  that  she  had  been  too  shy 
to  say  yesterday  that  she  had  intended  telling  him  that  morn- 
ing, and  nervous  and  frightened  as  she  was  about  the 
Duchess,  she  felt  that  a  sight  of  him  would  have  calmed  and 
strengthened  her.  On  re-reading  his  letter,  while  Pilgrim 

17.5 


176  PAM   DECIDES 

fastened  her  blouse,  a  sensation  absurdly  like  anger  came 
over  her. 

Surely  his  early  morning  engagements  could  not  have 
been  so  extremely  important  that  he  could  not  break  them 
for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the  woman  he  had  asked  to  marry 
him? 

As  she  sped  up  St.  James  Street  in  a  hansom  her  common 
sense  reasserted  itself,  and  with  a  shamefaced  laugh  she 
acknowledged  that  Lensky  was  perfectly  right  in  keeping  his 
engagements.  Indeed,  his  never  deviating  from  the  path 
before  him  had  as  a  rule  a  great  charm  for  the  girl,  and  she 
liked  his  quiet  acceptance  of  boring  people  and  things,  his 
unmurmuring  submission  to  the  social  laws  and  conventions 
that  roused  in  herself  such  gusts  of  resentment  and  defiance, 
and  although  she  still  felt  a  little  hurt,  she  had  quite  recov- 
ered her  good  humour  by  the  time  she  had  reached  the 
Duchess's. 

"  If  we  had  been  married  six  months,"  she  told  herself, 
as  she  paid  the  cabby,  "  I  should  have  been  distinctly  annoyed 
if  he  had  broken  an  engagement  to  see  me.  Therefore  I 
was  an  idiot  to  be  cross."  What  she  did  not  tell  herself, 
and  what  she  did  not  realise,  was  that  if  Lensky  had  shown 
any  Ratty-like  servitude,  or  even  any  of  Peele's  spasmodic 
recklessness  of  consequences,  he  would  have  disgusted  and 
shocked  her,  freezing  the  little  shoots  of  tenderness  that  were 
beginning  to  spring  from  the  solid  root  of  her  affection  for 
him.  No  number  of  interviews,  no  amount  of  love-making, 
could  so  have  served  Lensky's  purpose  as  did  his  matter-of- 
fact  carrying  out  of  his  social  duties  and  the  sobriety  of  his 


PAM   DECIDES  177 

note,  and  as  Pam  rang  at  the  Duchess's  door  she  realised  with 
a  start  that  she  had  been  so  occupied  in  thinking  of  this  com- 
parative stranger  that  she  had  forgotten  her  anxiety  about 
her  old  friend  who  was  ill. 

Her  Grace,  the  man  said,  was  in  her  morning-room ;  would 
Miss  Yeoland  go  upstairs? 

"  Well,"  cried  Pam,  opening  the  door  and  finding,  to  her 
boundless  surprise,  the  old  lady  sitting  by  the  fire,  "  here  I 
am." 

"Oh,  Pam!" 

The  Duchess  held  out  her  hand,  her  lips  shaking,  and  the 
grrl,  fear-stricken  by  something  in  the  old  face,  knelt  down 
and  kissed  it  tenderly.  "What  is  it?"  she  murmured; 
"can't  you  tell  me?  Dear  Duchess,  you  frighten  me  so!  " 

The  Duchess  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  to  conceal  its 
trembling.  "  Pam,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  it's — my  eyes — they 
are  going  to — cut  them  this  morning." 

"  To  cut  them " 

"  Yes.  Operate.  To  save  me  from — from — when  one 
can't  see.  I  can't  say  the  word." 

Pam-  looking  into  the  piteous,  wrinkled  face  that  she  saw 
for  the  first  time  bare  of  paint  and  powder,  understood  with 
a  flash  of  heart-breaking  pity  what  it  must  be,  the  fear  of 
blindness.  To  be  unable  to  see  the  firelight  on  the  crimson 
satin  walls,  her  grandfather's  portrait;  to  hear  a  door  open 
and  not  know  who  had  come  in.  The  girl's  sob  quieted 
the  old  woman's  agitation,  and  she  drew  her  hand  gently 
away. 

"  Get  up,  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  more  like  her  own, 


178  PAM   DECIDES 

"  and  don't  be  so  frightened.  When  Henny  was  hurt — she 
was  thrown  from  her  horse  and  broke  her  leg — I  sent  for 
you  because  you  are  always  brave.  I — am  ashamed  of  being 
such  an  idiot,  but  it  was  only  yesterday  that  they  told  me 
that  the — operation  was  necessary  to — save  my  sight." 

Pa'm  took  off  her  hat  and  jacket  and  sat  down  again.  "  / 
am  ashamed,"  she  answered ;  "  just  look  at  grandfather ; 
doesn't  he  look  disgusted  with  me?  When  is — it — to  be, 
Duchess  ?  " 

"At  noon." 

"And— here?" 

"Yes.  They  wanted  me  to  go  to  a  hospital,  but  I 
wouldn't,  and  Professor  Miihland, — the'  big  German,  you 
know, — is  to  do  it.  He  and  Sir  John  Markland." 

Pam  felt  as  if  she  had  been  whirled  back  into  her  old 
world  again.  Gone  the  new  one;  forgotten  the  new  plans; 
off  in  the  distance  somewhere,  Jean  de  Lensky. 

And  in  the  present,  the  Duchess  and  her  daughter,  grand- 
father's portrait,  and  danger,  and  blood  and  knives  and 
bad -smelling  drugs. 

When  Sir  John  Markland  and  the  Professor  arrived  they 
found,  beside  the  nurse  and  their  patient, — a  Duchess  brave 
with  the  obligatory  before-people  bravery  of  good  breeding, 
— Pam.  And  two  very  different  Pams  they  saw,  of  course, 
each  looking  at  her  from  his  own  individual  standpoint. 

Miihland  saw:  an  anaemic  young  woman  with  a  nervous 
face  and  a  quiet  voice;  a  young  woman  who  appeared  to 
understand  better  than  most  women  would  have  his  few 
grudging  words  of  explanation  about  the  operation, — "  a 


PAM    DECIDES  179 

refraction  error — the  nature  of  hypermetropia ;  the  operation 
is  called  Iridectomy." 

Sir  John  saw:  A  little  girl  with  splendid  dark  eyes  and  a 
sudden,  rather  attractive  smile;  a  little  girl  with  whom  he 
would  have  enjoyed  a  chat  in  other  circumstances,  because 
she  had  charm  and  a  certain  distinction  of  manner  for  all  her 
nervousness  about  her  old  friend. 

Pam  never  forgot  that  morning.  She  held  the  Duchess's 
hand  until  that  hand  dropped,  limp  from  hers,  and  then 
she  was  banished  and  went  back  to  the  morning-room,  which, 
as  too  small  for  her  restless  pacings,  she  soon  deserted  for 
the  drawing-room  and  the  hall. 

From  the  corner  under  the  portrait  of  Lord  Ventnor,  the 
Duchess's  son  who  had  died  when  he  was  a  child,  the  whole 
length  of  the  polished  floor,  across  the  hall  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  back,  she  walked,  her  hands  behind  her,  her  head 
bent.  The  clock  on  the  stairs  chimed  from  time  to  time; 
once  a  bell  rang  peremptorily  and  a  frightened  footman 
scurried  upstairs;  once  a  door  opened  overhead.  And  up 
there,  in  that  awfully  prepared  room,  the  big,  bearded  Ger- 
man was  putting  knives  into  the  Duchess's  kind  little  eyes 
from  which  the  pencilling  had  all  been  carefully  washed 
away. 

Pam  knew  that  the  operation  was  a  very  serious  one ;  that 
if  it  did  not  succeed  the  Duchess  must  be  blind,  as  she  would, 
without  the  awful  ordeal,  inevitably  have  become.  Suppose 
the  doctor  should  suddenly  go  mad  and  hack  murderously  at 
his  defenceless  victim, — suppose  her  heart  should  prove  to 
have  been  weak,  after  all,  and  should  quietly  cease  beating, — 


i8o  PAM   DECIDES 

suppose,  suppose,  suppose.  The  only  spark  of  comfort  was 
that  in  the  hour  of  need  the  Duchess  had  sent  for  her,  for 
Pam  Yeoland. 

Pam  was  one  of  those  women  who  feel  far  more  need  of 
someone  to  lean  on  her  than  of  someone  on  whom  to  lean. 
It  was  in  her  to  cherish  and  care  for,  far  more  than,  in  her 
natural  impatience,  she  herself  could  ever  have  endured  being 
cherished. 

In  her  plans  for  her  future  with  Lensky  she  had  uncon- 
sciously arrogated  to  herself  the  right  of  sacrifice;  it  was 
she  who,  by  her  deeds,  was  to  make  him  happy,  who  was 
to  make  her  happy  not  by  doing,  but  by  simply  being. 

The  only  thing  she  had  reserved  for  herself,  and  that 
without  any  reasoning  about  it,  was  her  liberty;  she  would 
jealously  guard  his  liberty,  but  he  should  not  guard  hers, 
for  that  she  should  continue  to  do  herself. 

And  now,  as  she  paced  the  long  room,  waiting  for  news 
from  upstairs,  her  chief  feeling,  beside  the  fear  that  made 
her  hands  cold,  was  one  of  gratitude  that  the  Duchess  had 
wanted  her  in  her  great  trial.  She  would  care  for  the  old 
lady,  and  help  her,  and  do,  in  return  for  this  precious  sign 
of  affection,  all  that  a  daughter  could  do. 

At  length  Sir  John  came  downstairs,  spic  and  span  and 
smelling  of  eau-de-cologne. 

"Well?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  with  his  gay  little  nod,  "  it  is  well. 
Our  dear  Duchess  will  see  as  well  as  ever  in  a  short  time " 

"  But — what  was  the  matter?  Dr.  Miihland  was  so 
learned  that  I  didn't  understand  a  word  he  told  me ! " 


PAM    DECIDES  18 1 

Markland  smiled.  "  And  you  hope  that  I  am  less  learned  ? 
Well,  my  dear  young  lady,  the  Duchess  has  been  suffering 
from  what  we  call  acute  glaucoma,  and  if  this  operation  had 
been  put  off  for  thirty-six  hours  she  would  have  gone  totally 
blind." 

"  Oh!    And  Dr.  Muhland— what  did  he  do?  " 

Again  Sir  John  smiled.  "  It  is  too  complicated  to  explain, 
but — he  cut  the  iris,  corrected  the  mischief,  and  now  all  that 
the  patient  needs  is  rest  in  a  perfectly  dark  room  until  the 
wound  is  quite  healed." 

"  Poor  Duchess — in  a  dark  room!  " 

"  Yes, — but  she  came  very  near  finding  the  whole  world  a 
dark  room.  And  it  was  diagnosed  as — biliousness !  " 

Then,  with  another  look  into  the  eyes  he  admired,  he  went 
his  way,  disappointed  in  her  now  that  her  excited  flush  had 
subsided,  and  thinking  regretfully  that  she  was,  after  all, 
rather  faded,  poor  girl,  seen  by  daylight. 


CHAPTER   XI 

A  FEW  days  later  Pam  knocked  on  the  door  leading  from 
the  shaded  dressing-room  into  the  Duchess's  bedroom,  where 
the  old  lady  lay  in  absolute  darkness. 

"It's  me — Pam.  May  I  come  in?  I've  a  letter  from 
Lady  Henny,  and  all  kinds  of  news  to  tell  you !  " 

"  Come  in,  my  dear,  come  in.  I  am  bored  to  the  point  of 
frenzy.  How  are  you,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  since 
I  last  heard  you?  I  thought  you'd  be  coming  this  morning, 
fcut  you  didn't." 

Pam  felt  her  way  to  a  chair  and  sat  down.  "  I  have  a 
new  housemaid,"  she  explained,  "  and  had  to  have  a  talk 
with  her.  Besides,  I  bored  you  horribly  last  night,  you 
know  I  did." 

The  Duchess  laughed.  "You  didn't,  and  you  know  it 
perfectly  well.  Now  tell  me  what  Henny  has  to  say." 

"  Well, — she  is  better,  the  pain  is  very  much  less,  and  she 
is  lying  on  a  sofa  instead  of  in  bed, — which  she  says  is  a 
great  relief.  Marmy  is  very  well  and  is  tremendously  excited 
about  your  eyes.  She  sends  you  much  love,  of  course,  and 
urges  you  to  be  patient " 

"  As  if  I  couldn't  give  points  to  Job,"  interrupted  the  old 
lady. 

"  And  as  soon  as  you  are  able  to  read  she  will  write  you 
long  letters." 

182 


PAM    DECIDES  183 

"  Nothing  more  about  Marmy?  " 

"  No, — except  that  he  is  learning  to  write.  Poor  little 
boy;  I'd  let  him  run  wild  for  a  year  or  two  if  I  were 
she " 

"  Old  maids'  children,"  chuckled  the  Duchess,  stirring  in 
bed ;  "  wait  till  you  have  some  of  your  own  and  you'll  want 
'em  to  learn  to  write  fast  enough." 

Pam  smiled  happily  in  the  darkness.  The  Duchess  did 
not  know  how  extremely  real  those  future  children  of  hers 
had  grown  of  late.  The  girl  could,  in  her  innocent  imagina- 
tion, almost  see  them  playing  about  the  old  house  in  West- 
minster. And  she  knew,  though  no  word  on  the  subject 
had  ever  been  passed  between  them,  that  Lensky,  too,  loved 
children,  for  once  she  had  seen  him  pick  up  and  console  a 
little  girl  who  had  fallen  with  a  mug  of  beer,  and  only  a 
man  who  was  instinctively  paternal  could  have  shaken  out 
the  tumbled  skirts,  and  reimbursed  the  wailing  little  creature 
for  her  loss,  in  quite  that  manner. 

"  But  really,  Pam,"  the  Duchess's  voice  came  back  to  her 
at  the  end  of  this  brief  excursion  into  memory,  "  you  may 
say  what  you  like,  but  I  am  right." 

"  But " 

"  Oh,  I  know  beforehand  all  that  you  are  going  to  say, 
so  don't  say  it!  You  always  thought  yourself  wiser  than 
anyone  else, — you  got  that  from  your  grandfather, — but  the 
fact  remains  that  time  is  passing,  and  that  it  is  high  time 
you  had  a  husband." 

Para  was  silent.  This  was  the  moment  for  telling  the 
Duchess  about  her  engagement ;  her  news  would  be  received, 


1 84  PAM   DECIDES 

she  knew,  with  the  kindest  joy;  and  yet  a  panic  of  embar- 
rassment seized  her,  and  she  sat  blushing  in  the  sheltering 
darkness,  unable  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  absurdly  you  used  to  talk  when 
you  were  very  young?"  continued  the  old  lady.  "  How  it 
did  amuse  Oswald !  You  were  never  going  to  marry  because 
all  married  people  were  unhappy,  but  you  meant  to  have 
children!  An  outrageous  young  person  you  were,  my  dear! 
And  then  your  rushing  off  to  the  country  to  see  that  poor 
woman.  How  angry  your  grandfather  was, — and  with 
reason !  " 

"  She  was  my  father's  wife,"  returned  Pam,  shortly,  to 
whose  mind  this  particular  escapade  had  never  changed  its 
early  aspect;  "  I'm  glad  I  went,  and  I  should  do  the  same 
thing  again  to-morrow." 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  of  it!  Poor  Oswald,  he 
was  furious,  though.  He  wrote  me  all  about  it,  and  swore 
he'd  never  forgive  you." 

"  Poor  G.F!     He  was  very  obstinate." 

The  Duchess  laughed. 

"  Yes,  and  you,  I  suppose,  were  merely  firm.  That's 
always  the  way.  But,  to  go  back  to  our  muttons,  I  do  wish 
I  could  see  you  married.  You  have  lost  the  Fat  Boy,  as  yor., 
of  course  know." 

"  Yes.  I  was  an  accessory  before  the  fact.  I  met  Miss 
Hetley,  too,  at  Evelyn's." 

"  Did  you  like  her?  Jack  Lensky  told  me,  but  I  couldn't 
get  a  word  out  of  him  about  her.  He  is  horribly  close- 
mouthed.  By  the  way,  is  he  really  so  devoted  to  Evelyn? 


PAM    DECIDES  183 

She  and  Alys  Compton  have  had  a  row  and  don't  speak,  so  oi 
course  everyone  expects  his  engagement  to  Evelyn  to  be 
announced  any  day." 

"  That  day  will  never  come,"  declared  Pam,  boldly,  but 
the  Duchess  did  not  notice  her  tone. 

"  I  often  think,"  the  old  lady  continued,  "  that  it  is  a 
great  pity  women  can't  get  a  new  lease  of  looks  at  forty. 
All  these  exquisite  girk  are  either  silly  or  dull,  and  by  the 
time  Life  has  knocked  some  wit  into  them  they  have  lost 
their  beauty.  And  a  man  like  Jack  Lensky,  for  instance, 
ought  to  have  a  wife  both  clever  and  good-looking, — although 
I  must  say  he  seems  to  content  himself,  in  the  way  of  flirta- 
tions, with  only  looks." 

"  Duchess,"  began  Pam,  "  I " 

"Hush!  Yes,  it  is!  The  telephone,  Pam.  Do  go  and 
see  what  it  is,  will  you?  It's  in  the  passage  beyond  my 
dressing-room." 

Pam  obeyed  her,  at  once  relieved  and  disappointed  by  thr 
interruption. 

"  Hullo  ?   Yes,— this  is  the  Duchess  of  Wight's." 

There  was  a  moment  of  confusion,  of  whirring  and  jan- 
gling noises,  and  then  James  Peele's  voice  said,  "  With  whom 
am  I  speaking,  please  ?  " 

After  a  short  pause,  the  girl  answered.  "  I  will  give  any 
message  to  the  Duchess." 

"  Are  you  the  nurse  ?    I  want  to  speak  with  the  nurse." 

"  I  am  Pamela  Yeoland." 

She  heard  a  little  ejaculation  of  surprise,  and  then  he 
answered,  hurriedly:  "  You!  Pam?  " 


1 86  PAM   DECIDES 

"  I  am  Pamela  Yeoland.  What  shall  I  tell  the  Duchess 
for  you  ?  " 

"  Er — how  is  she  getting  on, — and — my  love — and — I 
am  in  town  on  business  and  hadn't  time  to  come  and  see 
her " 

"  Very  well.    I  will  tell  her." 

"  But  you — yourself,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  how  are 

you,  and  where  are  you  living,  and "  He  was  evidently 

agitated,  and  even  over  the  wires  his  voice  gave  her  the  old 
pang.  One  hand  clenched  to  her  chest,  she  answered,  stiffly, 
"  Thank  you,  I  am  very  well.  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  wait  a  moment.  You  didn't  come  to  the  din- 
ner,— I  want  to  see  you.  When  can  I  see  you?  " 

Suddenly  her  old  terror  of  him  came  over  her  so  strongly 
that  she  trembled,  and  the  only  thing  in  the  world  worth 
considering  was  how  she  could  escape  him. 

"  I  am  leaving  England  to-morrow,"  she  said,  forcing  her 
voice  to  a  quiet  level.  "  Good-bye;  I  will  give  your  messages 
to  the  Duchess." 

Then  she  rang  off  and  went  back  into  the  merciful  dark- 
ness of  the  sickroom. 

"  It  was  Mr.  Peele,"  she  explained,  sitting  down.  "  He 
sends  you  his  love  and  is  sorry  he  hadn't  time  to  come  to  see 
you.  He  is  going  out  of  town  to-night." 

"  Jim !  Well,  it  must  have  seemed  queer  to  you  to  be 
talking  to  him  again  after  all  these  years.  I  wonder  why 
you  never  liked  him,  Pam?  You  never  did,  though  he 
charmed  many  people.  You  always  were  as  sharp  as  a 
needle." 


PAM    DECIDES  187 

Pam  smiled  nervously  in  the  darkness.  Her  sharpness  had 
been,  as  that  quality  so  often  is,  reserved  exclusively  for  the 
use  of  other  people,  and  of  rather  less  than  no  use  in  her  own 
affairs. 

The  Duchess  talked  on,  and  the  girl  sat  wondering  what 
she  should  do.  If  she  left  England,  as  she  had  told  Peele 
she  was  going  to  do,  where  should  she  go?  She  had  very 
little  money  for  Continental  wanderings,  she  had  no  wish 
to  leave  her  own  house,  and  she  almost  feared  to  leave 
Lensky.  Should  she  stay  on,  treating  her  unconsidered  state- 
ment to  Peele  as  a  necessary  lie  ? 

Before  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room  opened  and  Peele's  voice  said,  "  My  dear  Duchess " 

"Jim!" 

"Yes, — I  have  decided  not  to  go  to  Torpington  until 
to-morrow,  and  thought  I'd  run  in  and  hear  about  things 
from  yourself.  Henrietta  will  be  more  contented  so, — ah, 
how  dark  it  is  here !  " 

"  Give  him  a  chair,  Pam, — you  are  used  to  the  dark- 
ness." 

"  Thanks.  And  how  are  you,  Miss  Pam  ?  It  is  a  very 
long  time  since  we  last  met " 

"  Yes, — very  long,"  she  answered,  steadily,  through  the 
stifling  heart-beats  that  terrified  her ;  "  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Oh,  his  voice;  his  beautiful  deep  voice  with  the  queer 
thrill  in  it.  As  plainly  as  if  it  had  been  broad  daylight  she 
could  with  her  imagination's  eye  see  his  face  as  he  spoke; 
the  thin,  clear-cut  face  with  the  deep-set  grey  eyes,  the  eyes 
she  had  seen  dim  with  tears  and  dark  with  strong  feelings; 


i88  PAM   DECIDES     . 

the  stern,  flexible  mouth ;  the  broad  brow  with  its  deep  line. 
All  of  it  she  could  see,  although  it  was  so  dark. 

And  while  he  talked  to  the  Duchess,  giving  a  detailed 
account  of  his  wife's  accident,  he,  too,  she  knew,  was  think- 
jing,  thinking  of  those  past  days  when  they  two  had  loved 
each  other.  For  he  had  loved  her;  he  had  misunderstood, 
been  hard  and  cruel,  and  failed  her,  but  he  had  loved  her, 
and  he  would  at  the  last  have  thrown  up  everything  and 
married  her.  And  it  was  he  whom  she  had  seen  that  earlier 
morning  at  the  Villa,  standing,  weary  and  worn  with  sleep- 
less pain,  under  her  window.  And  they  had  had,  in  spite  of 
everything,  their  one  day  in  Arcadia. 

With  a  start,  she  tried  to  think  of  Lensky,  of  her  promise, 
of  the  future,  but  it  was  in  vain,  for  the  sound  of  this  other 
man's  voice  bound  her  helplessly  to  the  past. 

With  horror  she  realised  that  if  that  voice  ever  managed 
to  bridge  the  chasm  of  time  between  the  past  and  the  present, 
her  peace  would  be  gone  forever. 

She  rose.  "  I  must  go,  Duchess,"  she  said,  "  and  you 
won't  mind  now  that  Mr.  Peele  is  here  to  keep  you  com- 
pany. Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  my  dear.    You  will  come  to-morrow." 

"  When  do  you  leave  England,  Miss  Yeoland  ?  "  asked 
Peele,  carelessly,  and  she  knew  that  as  he  spoke  his  mouth 
7ave  a  certain  little  mocking  twist.  So  distinctly  did  she 
://em  to  see  this  that  as  she  answered  she  smiled  conven- 
tionally in  the  direction  of  his  voice. 

"  Very  soon,"  she  returned ;  and,  disregarding  a  loud  out- 
cry from  the  Duchess,  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  a  relief,  on  arriving  at  her  house,  to  find  Cyril 
Wantage  waiting  for  her.  He  looked  very  cheerful  and 
informed  her  with  self-congratulation  that  he  had  found  a 
most  satisfactory  situation  as  private  secretary  to  an  old  gen- 
tleman in  Warwick  Square  who  was  writing  a  book  on 
butterflies. 

"  Lepidoptera  Britannica,  you  know, — a  very  important 
work,  that  he's  been  slaving  at  for  fifteen  years.  It  appears 
that  the  B.  P.  is  so  hungering  and  thirsting  for  it  that  extra 
steam  must  be  put  on,  so  I  am  employed  as — stoker." 

"  What  do  you  do  ?  Look  up  things  in  the  Encyclopae- 
dia? "  asked  Pam,  whose  ideas  on  the  subject  of  scientific 
research  were  somewhat  vague. 

"  Not  I !  I  help  him  puzzle  out  his  early  chapters — you 
never  saw  such  awful  writing  in  your  life, — and  when  we've 
got  a  nice  bit  translated  I  copy  it  on  beautiful  smooth  paper 
in  my  best  hand." 

Pam  took  off  her  hat  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you  have  such  a  nice  position,"  she 
said ;  "  Mary  will  be  pleased." 

He,  who  was  sitting  just  about  where  she  had  first  seen 
him,  the  night  of  his  burglarious  experiment,  smiled  cheer- 
fully. "  Yes,  won't  she !  I  don't  begin  work  till  Monday, 
and  I'm  going  down  to  Bumblemouth  to  tell  her.  I'm  crazy 
to  tell  her,  the  dear! " 

189 


190  PAM   DECIDES 

"  What  salary  are  you  to  have?  "  she  returned. 

"  Two  quid  a  week.  Lepidoptera  don't  appear  to  be  very 
profitable,  do  they?  But  I  work  only  in  the  mornings,  and 
may  be  able  to  get  something  to  do  in  the  afternoons  to  help 
out.  He  puts  me  up,  too,  of  course." 

Pam's  mind  was  whirling  hopelessly  about  her  own  affairs, 
but  with  an  effort  she  recalled  it  and  applied  it  to  a  consider- 
ation of  Wantage's.  "  At  least  it's  better  than  nothing," 
she  said,  "  and  I'll  keep  a  look-out  in  the  papers  for  you. 
Now,  remember,  you  can't  afford  cabs,  and  you  must  save 
part  of  what  you  earn.  I  have  a  friend  who  owns  some 
houses  in  the  Marylebone  district,  and  I'll  speak  to  her 
about  a  room  for  you  in  the  spring,  when  Mary  comes.  I'm 
sure  she  would  arrange  with  her  agent  to  let  you  have  a 
good  one  at  a  low  rent." 

Wantage  rose.  "  Look  here,  Miss  Yeoland,"  he  began, 
with  an  awkwardness  she  had  never  before  seen  in  him,  "  I 
don't  say  much,  and  I  am  hopelessly  casual,  and  all  that, 
but — I  am  most  awfully  grateful  to  you,  indeed  I  am.  When 
I  was  sitting  here, — in  what  used  to  be  my  own  house,  wait- 
ing for  you,  and  remembered  about — that  night — I — I  rea- 
lised that  you  had  saved  me  from  being — almost  anything. 
I'm  not  bad,  but  I'm  as  weak  as  the  very  dev — deuce,  and 
Heaven  knows  what  I'd  have  done  if  I  had  walked  off  with 
some  of — your  things." 

Pam's  face  was  scarlet.  "  Oh,  please  don't.  You  thanked 
me  at  Bumblemouth,  and,"  she  said,  "  I'd  much  rather  you 
didn't.  Just  stick  to  your  butterflies  and  think  of  Mary, — • 
and  I  shall  be  contented." 


PAM    DECIDES  191 

Having  made  his  speech,  his  light-heartedness  returned. 

"  I  was  nearly  starving,"  he  added,  "  and  so  was  she, — 
and  I  had  also  been  drinking,  so  there  was  that  much  excuse. 
But — I  just  wanted  you  to  know  that  I'm  not  ungrateful. 
Thanks  for — everything,  then, — and  I'll  let  you  know  how 
I'm  getting  on." 

When  she  was  alone,  Pam's  mind  returned  wearily  to  its 
treadmill,  and  she  was  sitting  crouched  on  the  divan  in  the 
dying  firelight  when  the  new  parlour-maid,  who,  judging  by 
her  charm  of  face,  would  not  be  given  to  post-midnight  phi- 
landerings,  brought  in  a  letter.  The  stamp  was  Russian, 
but  the  writing  was  not  Lensky's,  and  with  an  awful  feeling 
of  guilt  Pam  saw,  by  glancing  first  at  the  signature,  that  it 
was  from  his  mother. 

Three  pages  of  gracefully  expressed  French  welcome  into 
a  family  quite  obviously  considered  by  this  member  of  it  to  be 
almost  unequalled  in  the  annals  of  any  country.  There  was 
no  gushing  promise  of  affection  for  the  unknown  English 
girl,  no  expression  of  motherly  longing  to  clasp  that  stranger 
in  the  writer's  arms.  But  under  the  restraint  and  coldness 
that  so  reminded  Pam  of  Lensky  himself,  it  seemed  to  the 
girl  that  she  could  feel  kindness  and  sympathy  that  it  needed 
only  personal  contact  to  bring  out. 

And  this  letter,  which  would  have  chilled  most  girls,  in 
her  position,  pleased  her,  and  here  by  her  own  fire,  with  it 
on  her  lap,  Lensky  seemed  again  the  real  man,  and  James 
Peele  the  shadow.  This  was  Wednesday,  and  on  Saturday 
Lensky, — "  Jack,"  as  she  now  for  the  first  time  called  him 
to  herself, — would  be  back. 


192  PAM   DECIDES 

And  sitting  there  in  the  little  white  room  she  laid  a  plan 
that  was,  in  its  very  simplicity,  wise. 

She  would  the  next  day  tell  the  Duchess  of  her  engage- 
ment, and  then  she  would  write  Peele  a  letter  and  tell  him, 
too,  and  ask  him  not  to  remind  her  of  things  she  preferred 
to  forget. 

"  He  will  think  I  am  ashamed,  now  that  I  am  engaged," 
she  told  herself,  pleased  with  her  artfulness,  "  and  surely 
he  will  not  bother  me  again."  Unconsciously,  too,  she 
counted  on  Peele's  extreme  sensitiveness  to  slights,  and 
trusted  that  her  desire  to  avoid  him  would  help  her  in  her 
purpose  by  offending  him. 

And  when  Jack  was  with  her  again  these  worries  would 
fade  away  as  they  had  in  Bumblemouth. 

Having  come  to  these  decisions,  she  sat  down  and  answered 
Madame  de  Lensky's  letter.  By  the  time  her  letter  reached 
the  unpronounceable  little  town  in  Poland,  Jack  would  be 
on  his  way  home! 

She  wrote  two  pages, — more  flowery  than  they  could  have 
been  in  English,  but  formal  and  self-contained,  saying  not  a 
word  about  herself,  but  that  it  would  give  her  great  pleasure 
to  meet  Jean's  mother,  whose  picture  she  had  seen.  Once 
she  paused.  Should  she  say  that  she  loved  him  ? 

No;  not  because  she  did  not,  for,  she  told  herself,  she  did 
love  him  in  a  way, — "  Je  I'aime  bien  d'amitie" — but  because 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  lonely  old  chatelaine  in  Poland 
would  not  be  in  the  least  interested  in  her  sentimental  expe- 
riences. So  the  letter  was  finished,  addressed  and  stamped, 
and  dismissed  from  the  girl's  tired  mind. 


PAM   DECIDES  193 

Jack  was  to  dine  with  her  on  Saturday,  and  she  would 
make  herself  as  pleasant  to  look  on  as  might  be. 

"  I'll  wear  the  white  frock,  and  I'll  prink,  and  I'll  loosen 
my  hair,  or  have  Evy's  man  come  and  wave  it.  And  we'll 
have  dinner  on  the  round  table  by  the  hall  fire." 

Her  conscious  pleasure  in  the  fact  that  she  was  so  glad 
that  he  was  so  soon  coming  was  rather  pathetic,  though  she 
did  not  know  it.  Oh,  how  glad  she  would  be  to  see  him, 
her  dear,  trustworthy  little  worldling! 

She  had,  considering  that  they  had  met  so  few  times,  a 
curiously  accurate  knowledge  of  Lensky's  character.  Esteem 
him  as  she  did,  she  accepted  without  a  protest  the  account 
he  had  given  to  her  of  himself  that  day  by  the  sea  in  Bumble- 
mouth,  and  with  the  sense  of  humour  so  rare  as  applied  to 
one's  own  close  concerns,  she  smiled  as  she  pictured  him 
bending  devotedly  over  Lady  Alys  and  Evelyn — or  over 
any  pretty  woman  in  whose  company  he  might  chance  to  find 
himself. 

It  lay  in  him  to  gamble,  to  admire  women,  even,  as  she 
crudely  put  it  to  herself,  to  "  drink."  He  was  a  dandy  and 
a  mondain,  who,  so  far  as  she  knew,  had  never  done  any- 
thing noteworthy  in  any  way. 

And  yet,  comparing  him  as  she  inevitably  did  with  James 
Peele,  she  knew  that,  in  spite  of  the  comparative  austerity  of 
Peele's  life,  and  the  great  political  usefulness  that  at  least  at 
one  time  had  distinguished  him,  Lensky  was  the  better  man. 

Worn  out  by  thought  and  worry,  she  fell  asleep  that 
night  as  soon  as  she  got  to  bed,  her  last  conscious  thought 
being  one  of  happiness  over  Lensky's  return  on  Saturday. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"DUCHESS,— I  have  something  to  tell  you!  " 

Pam  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  darkness,  her  hands  clenched 
tight  on  her  knees.  For  over  an  hour  she  had  been  trying 
to  say  the  words,  and  now  they  were  said  and  seemed  to  her 
to  be  met  with  a  kind  of  explosive  silence. 

"Don't  say  you're  going  to  run  away  again!  You 
promised  me  a  few  minutes  ago " 

"  No,  it  isn't  that.  But  I'm  going "  Could  it  really 

be  she  herself  who  was  saying  these  grandiloquent  words  ? — 
"  to  be  married." 

The  Duchess  sat  up  in  bed  audibly.  "  Married !  Pam — 
who  is  he?  Not  the  Fat  Boy,  after  all?  " 

Now  that  it  was  out,  Pam's  relief  was  immense,  and  she 
drew  a  long,  comfortable  breath.  "  No !  No  fat  boys  for 
me,  thank  you.  It's — Jack  Lensky." 

"  Come  here, — come  here,  you  ridiculous  thing, — let  me 
kiss  you !  Oh,  Pam,  I  am  so  glad !  But — when  did  it  hap- 
pen,— and, — why,  I  never  was  so  surprised  in  my  life ! " 

The  girl  knelt  down  by  the  bed  and  was  kissed  and  petted 
enthusiastically.  "  Your  surprise  is  hardly  flattering,  is  it?  " 
she  asked,  laughing.  "  You  are  a  very  transparent  old  lady, 
and  I  know  you're  wondering  what  he,  ^?  beauty-enthusiast, 
can  see  in  your  beloved  and  delightful,  but  plain,  Pam!  " 

"  I  wasn't,"  protested  the  Duchess,  but  with  a  tell-tale 

194 


PAM    DECIDES  195 

laugh ;  "  I  was  only  wondering  when  you  got  to  know  each 
other  well  enough  to  become  engaged." 

"  Surely  knowing  each  other  isn't  a  sine  qua  nonf  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  better  a  man  and  a  girl  know  each 
other  the  less  likely  they  are  to  fall  in  love.  That,"  she 
.added,  rising  and  reseating  herself,  "  sounds  cynical,  but  it 
really  isn't.  I  mean  that  intimacy  seems  to — dull  the 
glamour " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear;  but  never  mind  that.  Tell  me  more 
about  you  and  Jack.  Why,  you've  only  known  him  since 
that  dinner  at  Evelyn's !  He  called  the  next  day, — I  remem- 
ber rather  piping  my  eye  at  that!  And  then  you  went  to 
Bumblemouth — and  spoiled  my  dinner,  and — why,  Pam 
Yeoland,  I  don't  believe  you!  You're  trying  to  amuse  me 
with  this  tale!  He  went  to  Poland  the  day  you  came  back 
from  the  sea,  and  he  isn't  home  yet ! M 

So  Pam  had  to  own  up. 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,"  she  moaned,  "  you  will  bully  me  and 
tease  me,  and  I  shall  die!  How  horrid  accurate  people  are. 
Why  must  you  tear  down  the  veil  of  propriety  I  have  draped 
over  the  affair  and  force  me  to  horrid  confessions!  Well, — 
if  you  must  know,  indiscreet  person, — Jack  and  I  met  ages 
ago, — last  spring." 

"  Last  spring !  But  where  ?  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could 
see  you.  Go  on,  tell  me;  why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  the 
time?" 

The  bed  creaked  as  the  old  woman  rolled  over  in  her 
"ixcitement. 

"  I  saw  him  that  first  day  I  came  here,  do  you  remember? 


196  PAM    DECIDES 

And  then  once  more  in  a — In  a  shop,  and  then  one  afternoon 
in  March  he  spoke  to  me  in  the  Cloisters  at  the  Abbey." 

"Great  Heavens!" 

"  I  knew  it  would  hurt  your  feelings!  And  he  came  to 
see  me  once  or  twice  in — in  my  cave — and  then " 

"  And  then  the  other  day  in  Westminster  he  asked  you  to 
marry  him !  " 

"  He  asked  me  to  marry  him  in  Seven  Dials,  before  I  had 
heard  of  Mr.  Burke's  death.  So  now  you  know  all  about 
it,  and — please  don't  tell." 

The  Duchess  was  enchanted,  jealous,  sentimental,  all  in  a 
breath.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  cheated  out  of  the  match- 
making that  should  have  been  hers;  she  made  plans  for  the 
wedding;  she  regretted  that  her  dear  Oswald  could  not. 
know;  she  thought  Pam  too  good  for  the  little  sinner  Len- 
sky,  and  the  enchanting  Lensky  a  wee  bit  wasted  on  the 
savage  Pam. 

"  For  you  will  always  be  a  cave-dweller,  you  know,"  she 
jf  marked,  "  even  though  you've  taken  to  a  house ;  you  always, 
were  a  little  savage.  When  is  he  coming  back?  You  must 
both  lunch  here  the  first  day  I  am  downstairs,  and  I'll  tell 
you  awful  tales  about  each  other.  How  amused  James  will 
be!  We  had  a  long  talk  about  you  yesterday,  after  you 
left." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  Pam's  embarrassment  had  fled,  and  she 
went  on  quite  easily  with  that  part  of  her  task  that  she  had 
anticipated  being  the  most  difficult:  "May  I  ask  a  great 
favour  of  you?" 

"  Of  course  you  may;  and  I  will  grant  it." 


PAM   DECIDES  197 

"  Then, — you  have  so  often  said  that  you  know  I  don't 
like  Mr.  Peele, — please  never  ask  me  to  meet  him." 

"  My  dear  child !  But  do  you  rrally  dislike  him  thai 
much?" 

"  I  don't  exactly  dislike  him,  but — I'd  so  much  rather  not 
see  him.  You  see, — he  reminds  me  of  things  I  try  to  forget, 
and  he  was  at  Monk's  Yeoland,  and  in  Cornwall  when 
Grandfather  died, " 

"  Pam,"  the  Duchess's  voice  was  serious  and  rather  author- 
itative, "  I  myself  am  not  very  fond,  as  you  know,  of  James, 
but  he  is  my  son-in-law,  and  you  are  one  of  the  people  of 
whom  I  am  fondest  in  the  world.  Unless  you  have  some 
better  reason  than  a  vague  dislike  for  him,  I  don't  think 
you  ought  to  ask  me  to  try  to  prevent  your  meeting.  Has  he 
ever  done  anything  to  you  that  justifies  a  strong  antipathy 
to  him  on  your  part  ?  " 

For  a  long  moment  the  girl  was  sHent.  Then  she  lied, — 
quietly,  convincingly,  artistically.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  he 
never  did  anything  to  me  personally,  but  he  has  on  me  the 
effect  that  cats  have  on  some  people.  For  no  reason  whatever, 
but  in  a  way  that  is  overwhelming,  I  hate  to  hear  his  voice, 
to  touch  his  hand,  even  to  see  his  face.  It  makes  me  so 
uncomfortable  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  him  that  it  is  a 
real  torture  to  me.  That's  all." 

"You  queer  little  thing!  A  case  of  Dr.  Fell,  isn't  it? 
Well,  but  the  hard  part  is  that  the  poor  fallow  really  srcms 
fond  of  you,  and  was  saying  yesterday  how  glad  he  should 
be  to  see  you  again.  He  wants  to  dine  here  with  you.  What 
am  I  to  do?" 


198  PAM    DECIDES 

Pam  hesitated,  and  then  said,  "  Well, — why  not  tell  him 
what  I  said?  I'm  sorry  to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  he  really 
won't  care,  and  that  will  be  an  end  tc  it." 

"  But  you  might  get  to  like  him ;  many  people  do !  Come 
to  lunch  with  him  once,  and  try " 

Pam  rose  abruptly.  "  I  can't.  I  can't  bear  the  man, 
Duchess,  and  life's  too  short  to  try  to  like  people.  Please  be 
a  dear  and  help  me  out." 

"  All  right,  I  will.  Only— well,  I'll  do  my  best.  He's 
coming  in  this  afternoon " 

"  B-r-r-r-r, — then  I'll  fly!  May  I  bring  Jack  to  see  you, 
say  on  Monday?  " 

"  Yes,  do,  my  dear.  And  in  the  meantime,  my  love  to  him. 
I  am  so  glad  about  it." 

Pam  walked  home,  for  the  day  was  fine,  and  now  that 
she  had  told  the  Duchess  of  her  engagement  and  secured 
her  as  an  ally  in  the  Peele  matter,  the  girj  felt  that  a  tre- 
mendous weight  was  off  her  mind. 

The  Duchess  would  most  probably  hint  at  an  absurd 
prejudice  on  Pam's  part,  adding  that  the  ridiculous  child 
really  seemed  to  dislike  him,  and  then  he,  with  his  morbid 
sensitiveness,  would  understand,  and  keep  out  of  her  way 
as  painstakingly  as  she  would  avoid  him. 

After  all  she  did  not  regret  the  letter  she  had  been  unable 
to  compose  to  him. 

And  the  day  after  to-morrow  Jack  would  be  back ! 

Crossing  Piccadilly,  she  went  into  St.  James  Park,  and 
pausing  on  the  bridge,  stood  watching  the  faintly-tinted  even- 
ing sky.  "  How  I  lied,"  she  thought;  "  well,  a  lie  in  time 


PAM    DECIDES  199 

saves  nine,  in  this  case  at  any  rate.  He  will  be  angry  and 
avoid  me,  and  then — later — perhaps  I  shan't  mind  seeing 
him."  For  if  Jack  was  a  shield  and  buckler  to  her,  what 
would  the  occupant  of  that  first  little  cradle  be  ? 

Pam  had  had  no  religious  training,  and  she  was  not  at  all 
of  a  devout  nature.  She  never  went  to  church,  much  from  2 
habit  of  not  going,  as  many  people  go  because  they  were 
forced  as  children  to  do  so. 

But  she  was  no  atheist,  and  now,  looking  up  at  the  palely 
rosy  sky,  the  feeling  of  gratitude  to  something  she  did  not 
name  was  very  nearly,  if  not  quite,  a  prayer. 

And  oh,  how  good  she  would  be,  and  how  hard  she  would 
try  to  deserve  this  happiness. 

After  lingering  for  ten  minutes  on  the  bridge,  she  went  on 
home,  opening  the  door  of  her  own  beloved  house  with  a 
latch-key — a  mannish  possession  not  always  dumbly  disap- 
proved by  Pilgrim,  and  entered  into  the  dear  place. 

"  Mr.  Maxse  is  in  the  drawing-room,  Miss,"  announced 
Pearson,  the  housemaid,  as  Pam  turned  to  the  left  towards 
the  white  study. 

"Mr.  Maxse!" 

"  Yes,  Miss.    'E's  been  'ere  some  time,  Miss." 

Ratty  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  in  the  peacock-room,  his 
hands  behind  his  back.  He  looked  nervous  and  pale. 

"  Hello,  Ratty,  glad  to  see  you.    How's  Dolly?  " 

"  Look  here,  Pam, — I  want  to  have  a  serious  talk  with 
you — what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?  You  look 
positively  pretty !  " 

She  laughed,  and,  sitting  down,  held  up  one  narrow  foot 


200  PAM   DECIDES 

to  the  fire.    "  Am  I  not  always  lovely  ?    And  won't  you  sit 
down?" 

But  Ratty  would  not  sit  down.  "  You  asked  me  about 
Dolly  a  minute  ago.  I  suppose  you  meant  Miss  Hetley?" 

"  I  did.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  familiarity,  but  I 
thought " 

"  You  thought  we  were  engaged,  I  suppose.  Well,  we 
are  not" 

"Aren't  you?    The  Duchess " 

"  The  Duchess  be  hanged.  It's  like  this.  She's  a  nice 
girl,  and  I  like  her,  and  she  has  some  money,  and  her  mother's 
dead, — and  I  suppose  she'd  take  me  if  I  asked  her,  but  I 
haven't  asked  her — yet." 

Pam  laughed.  "  Good  gracious,  Ratty,  why  pour  these 
tender  confidences  into  my  unsympathetic  ear?" 

"  Don't  devil  me,  Pam ;  I  haven't  slept  for  a  week,  trying 
to  think.  You  see,  everything  would  be  all  right  if  you'd 
only  be  sensible." 

"  I — what  have  I "  began  Pam,  feeling  as  if  she  had 

swallowed  something  cold. 

\  "  I  can't  explain  it,  or  be  poetical,  or  anything  of  that 
sort,"  pursued  the  Fat  Boy,  not  without  a  certain  dignity, 
«  but " 

"  Ratty,  don't  you  want  to  smoke?  Those  cigarettes  are 
very  good — they  are  Russian,  given  me  by — a  friend  " 

"  That  chap  Lensky,  I  suppose,  he  gives  'em  tc  every- 
body. No,  thanks,  I'll  not  smoke.  And  it's  come  to  this. 
I  simply  can't  ask  her  until  I've  tried  you  again.  Won't 
you  marry  me,  Pam  ?  " 


PAM    DECIDES  201 

"Oh,  Ratty!  And  I  was  so  happy  about  you!  And — I 
liked  her  so  much.  And  I'm  sure  she's  fond  of  you." 

"  That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it.  The  question  is, 
will  you  marry  me  ?  I  don't  know  why  I  want  you  so  much, 
but  I  do,  and  I  can't  help  it.  If  you  will,  I'll  be  awfully 
good  to  you,  and  I'll  try  never  to  pester  you " 

"  Ratty,"  said  Pam,  solemnly,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
"  I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  de  Lensky." 

Maxse  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  tumbling 
into  a  chair,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  very 
ridiculous  and  very  fat,  and  very  pestiferous,  but  he  was 
sincere,  and  in  great  grief,  and  Pam's  own  eyes  were  wet 
as  he  at  length  rose. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am,"  she  said,  taking  his 
limp  hand  in  hers.  "And  indeed  I  do  appreciate  your — 
your  affection  for  me,  Ratty.  You  will  get  over  this,  and 
we  will  be  good  friends  always." 

But  even  in  deep  sorrow  Ratty  could  not  be  altogether 
pleasing.  "  Oh,  /'//  get  over  it,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
blowing  his  nose,  "  but — I  don't  see  what  you  can  see  in 
that  chap!  I  could  swallow  him  whole." 

Pam  laughed,  greatly  relieved  by  his  tone.  "  Please  don't 
swallow  him,"  she  said. 

Ratty  glared  at  her  in  indignant  reproach,  and  after  a  final 
blast  on  his  nose,  took  his  leave.  "  You'll  be  sorry  some  day 
that  you  treated  me  this  way,"  he  said,  refusing  to  take  her 
proffered  hand.  "  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Ratty,"  she  returned,  gently. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

"AND  what  did  he  say?" 

Pam  sat  again  in  the  dark  room, — for  the  last  time,  as 
the  doctors  had  found  that  the  Duchess  might  be  allowed  her 
first  glimpse  of  daylight  the  following  morning, — and  the 
old  lady  had  just  announced  the  accomplishment  of  her  mis- 
sion to  Peele. 

"  I  told  him  that  you  seemed  to  dislike  seeing  him,  and 
that  /  thought  it  was  because  of  his  being  associated  with  the 
old  days  at  Monks'  Yeoland, — etc.  But  he  said  no,  that  he 
had  often  suspected  you  of  disliking  him  personally.  He  was 
very  nice  about  it,  though  I  could  tell  by  his  voice  that  he 
was  hurt,  and  he  told  me  to  tell  you  that  he  would  never  try 
to  see  you.  He  said  he  had  always  liked  you,  and  that  he 
was  sorry,  but  that  of  course  he  would  avoid  you  in  the 
future.  I  smoothed  things  as  much  as  I  could,"  pursued  the 
old  lady,  "  but  naturally  I  couldn't  make  it  an  occasion  of 
joy  to  either  of  us.  Luckily,  Alys  Compton  came  in  and 
interrupted.  He  asked  if  you  were  coming  this  afternoon, 
and  I  said  yes,  so  he  is  going  to  run  in  to-morrow  morning 
instead." 

Pam  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  How  foolish  she  had 
been,  what  a  mountain  she  had  made  out  of  a  wee  molehill ; 
and  how  her  vanity  had  unconsciously  led  her  to  exaggerate 
the  difficulties  of  her  position! 

Peele  had  naturally  been  a  trifle  annoyed,  but  he  had  not 

202 


PAM   DECIDES  203 

really  cared  a  straw  about  seeing  her  again.  Doubtless  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  her  until  accident  had  caused  her 
to  answer  his  call  to  the  telephone. 

In  the  darkness  the  girl  blushed  at  her  own  absurd  assump- 
tion that  he  had  longed  to  see  her, — that  he  had  meant  to 
go  out  of  his  way  to  get  in  touch  with  her. 

"  Thank  you  so  much,  Duchess,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
shiver  of  self-disgust ;  "  it  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  do  it, 
and  awfully  good  of  him  to — to  be  so  nice  about  it.  Now 
what  can  I  do  to  amuse  you  ?  I  am  so  sorry  your  head  aches. 
I  wish  I  could  read  to  you,  it  might  send  you  off  to  sleep." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  could.  I  am  so  tired  of  lying  here,  and 
so  bored!  Nurse  Brown  is  a  horrible  woman,  and  you  are 
the  only  person  who  has  the  patience  to  really  sit  with  me, — 
Alys,  and  Lady  Conisby  and  the  rest,  sandwich  me  between 
two  interesting  visits,  and  I  hear  their  self-righteousness  in 
every  word  they  say  to  me!  If  I  were  not  to  have  some  light 
to-morrow  I  should  murder  the  nurse  just  to  diversify  things 
a  bit!" 

"Poor  Duchess!" 

After  a  pause,  the  old  lady  said  suddenly,  "  Pam, — do  you 
ever  recite  now?" 

"  No.    I  haven't  for  years.    Not  since  Grandfather  died." 

"  Oh,  dear;  that  might  have  put  me  to  sleep." 

Pam  laughed.  "How  civil  you  are!  But — I  wish  I 
could.  Shall  I  try?  I  may  be  able  to  remember  a  few 
things " 

The  Duchess  changed  her  position.  "  Yes, — do  try.  My 
head  is  splitting " 


204  PAM    DECIDES 

Sitting  very  erect  in  her  chair,  her  hands  clasped,  Pam 
began.  Years  ago  it  had  been  one  of  her  grandfather's 
favourite  amusements  to  make  her  recite  to  him.  And  a 
motley  collection  of  verses  herS  was.  French  nursery  rhymes, 
bits  of  d'Annunzio's  flamboyant  poetry,  "  Bouillabaisse," 
long  rhymes  of  Herrick's  and  Beaumont's  and  Fletcher's, 
selections  from  Burns,  Shelley,  and  Byron,  some  things  of 
Verlaine  that  she  had  heard  repeated  by  Gemma  Ravoglia, 
who  at  one  time  was  a  friend  of  her  father's,  and  who  re- 
mained the  child's  friend  until  she  died, — a  sonnet  of 
Petrarch,  and  a  hundred  other  odds  and  ends  collected — 
Heaven  knows  how,  and  treasured  in  her  uncomprehend- 
ing little  brain,  chiefly  for  the  beautiful  melody  of  the 
words,  and  turned  on  at  will,  as  Lord  Yeoland  used  to  say 
with  a  gentle  chuckle,  in  an  evenly  flowing,  unhesitating 
stream. 

But  years  had  passed  since  those  days  and  the  girl  had 
forgotten  much.  At  first  she  hesitated  and  stammered,  giving 
up  one  selection  after  another,  and  on  the  point,  a  dozen 
times,  of  declaring  her  inability  to  continue. 

And  then,  stumbling  by  chance  on  the  exquisite  chorus  in 
Swinburne's  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  "  When  the  hounds  of 
Spring  are  on  Winter's  traces,"  she  found  that  she  had  not 
forgotten  a  word,  and  went  on  to  the  end,  using  her  voice  to 
its  fullest  effect,  her  cheeks  flushing  with  pleasure,  her  heart 
beating  faster.  She  had  not  forgotten,  and  the  talent  so  long 
lying  fallow  she  could  cultivate  and  use  to  give  pleasure  to 
Lensky. 

When  she  had  finished  this  most  lovely  thing  she  went  on 


PAM    DECIDES  205 

to  repeat  a  modern  Italian  lyric,  and  then,  almost  without 
halting,  several  stanzas  from  "  Laus  Veneris." 

This  had,  she  remembered,  greatly  amused  her  grand- 
father, who  forbade  her  reciting  them  to  anyone  else,  but 
who  evidently  immensely  enjoyed  them  himself. 

"The  scent  and  shadow  shed  about  me  make 
The  very  soul  in  all  my  senses  ache;" 

And  on  through  the  stanza  ending, 

"Heard  sudden  serpents  hiss  across  her  hair." 

No  wonder  her  grandfather  had  been  amused ! 

"  What  a  queer  little  thing  I  must  have  been,"  she  thought, 
pausing  to  listen  to  the  Duchess's  regular  breathing,  "and 
yet  Father  always  thought  I  knew  best !  " 

She  must  write  to  her  father, — she  should  have  written 
before,  to  tell  them  about  Lensky. 

Then,  the  Duchess  stirring  uneasily,  she  began  again,  her 
tongue  beginning  almost  before  she  was  conscious  of  directing 
it,  a  once-beloved  verse  of  Herrick's. 

"I  sing  of  Brooks,  and  Blossomes,  Birds,  and  Bowers, 
Of  April,  May,  of  June  and  July — flowers. 
I  sing  of  may-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 
Of  bridegroomes,  brides,  and  of  their  bridall-cakes  "— 

The  door  opening  softly  as  she  said  the  last  words,  she  went 
on  in  the  same  tone,  "  Her  Grace  is  asleep,  Nurse,"  and  then 
returned  to  the  poem,  finishing  it  for  her  own  pleasure  in 
the  melodious  syllables. 


206  PAM   DECIDES 

"  I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting ;  and  I  write 
How  roses  first  came  red,  and  lillies  white. 
I  write  of  groves,  and  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  f airie-king ! " 

Miss  Brown  had  not  come  in,  and  the  girl  went  on  moir 
isoftly, 

"  I  write  of  Hell ;  I  sing,  and  ever  shall 
Of  heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all." 

"  Do  you  remember  saying  that  to  me  in  Arcadia?" 

James  Peele  stood  near  her.  "  Pam, — I  have  just  come  to 
tell  you  myself,  that — I  will  not  annoy  you.  The  Duchess 
told  me.  Couldn't  you  have  asked  me  yourself  ?  " 

"  Hush!    I — you  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

Under  his  breath  he  gave  a  short  laugh;  a  laugh  that 
brought,  she  knew,  a  bitter  curve  to  his  mouth. 

"  Mind !  Of  course  I  do.  Do  you  think  it  doesn't  hurt 
to  know  that  you  hate  me  ?  " 

Involuntarily  she  clasped  her  hands.  "  Oh,  no, — I  don't 
hate  you,  Mr.  Peele, — I — I  can't  explain,  but  I  really  don't 
hate  you.  It  is  only  that  I — want  to  forget — some  things, 
and  that  you  remind  me  too  plainly  of  them." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  the  Duchess  gave  a 
muffled  snore.  "  I  must  go,"  whispered  Pam,  "  and  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  being  so  nice  about  it " 

Stretching  out  his  hand  he  found,  and  held,  hers. 

"  Pam, — can't  you  forgive  me?  I  behaved  like  a  brute; 
I  admit  that,  but  I  loved  you.  And  I  have  never,  either 
before  or  after,  loved  another  woman." 


PAM    DECIDES  207 

His  voice  sunk  to  a  deep  tenderness  that  made  her  heart 
stand  still,  and  her  hand  trembled  in  his. 

"I  have  thought  of  it  all  so  many  times;  I  have  cursed 
myself  over  and  over  for — losing  my  head  as  I  did,  and  add- 
ing to  your  troubles,  you  poor  little  child.  For  you  were 
only  a  child.  If  you  had  been  older  you  would  have  under- 
stood, perhaps.  But  you  were  too  young,  you  were  even  toe 
young  to  really  love." 

Pam  forgot  the  Duchess.  "  Mr.  Peele,"  she  said,  sharply, 
trying  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his,  "  you  have  no  right 
to  say  that.  It  is  not  true !  " 

"Then,— you  did?" 

She  could  not  answer.  Her  love  for  him,  unworthy  of  it 
though  she  had  long  known  him  to  be,  was  enshrined  in  the 
very  holy  of  holies  of  her  being,  and  his  doubt  hurt  her  to  the 
quick. 

"  Pam, — I  am  not  going  to  make  love  to  you,  don't  be 
afraid.  And  I  am  going  to  obey  you  and  avoid  seeing  you, 

to  prove  by  my  obedience  to  your  wishes "  he  paused. 

"  But  tell  me  just  the  one  thing.  Did  you  really  love  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  roughly,  "  I  did,  but  if  you  don't 
let  me  go  now  I  shall  hate  you.'* 

She  was  quivering  in  every  nerve  and  she  knew  that  he 
knew  it. 

For  a  moment  he  stood,  his  hand  closed  on  hers  with  such 
force  that  he  hurt  her.  Then  suddenly  he  freed  her  and 
drew  back.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  without 
another  word  she  found  the  door  and  escaped. 


CHAPTER   XV 

HOUR  after  hour  that  night  Pam  lay  awake,  staring  wide- 
eyed  into  the  darkness. 

He  had  promised  not  to  try  to  see  her  again,  she  had  gained 
her  point,  ostensibly  she  had  won  the  day,  but  she  knew  by 
the  way  his  voice  still  rung  in  her  ears,  by  the  way  her  hand 
still  felt  the  warm,  nervous  clasp  of  his,  that  the  victory  was 
not  hers. 

"  He  has  promised,"  she  said,  over  and  over  again,  repeat- 
ing the  words  as  if  they  were  a  sort  of  charm  to  keep  off  the 
swarms  of  those  poignant  thoughts  that  hovered  close  round 
her.  "  He  will  not  try  to  see  me." 

But  she  knew  that  this  fact  had  lost  much  of  the  impor- 
tance it  had  undoubtedly  had  for  her  before  the  events  of  the 
afternoon. 

It  was  not  what  he  would  or  would  not  do ;  but  what  she 
herself  was  feeling  that  counted,  and  at  last,  miserable  and 
ashamed,  she  faced  this  fact.  He  had  talked  to  her,  and  she 
had  trembled;  he  had  taken  her  hand  in  his  and  apparently 
only  the  mad  throbbing  in  her  breast  had  prevented  her  from 
falling  into  his  arms  from  very  weakness.  And  oh,  his  voice ! 

He  had  said  that  she  had  not  loved  him,  then,  years  ago, 
when  she  would  have  followed  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  his  voice  was  the  voice  that  had  talked  to  her  in  Arcadia. 
'Do  you  remember?"  he  had  asked. 

Could  she  ever  forget!  Even  with  Jack,  could  she,  now 
that  he  had  reminded  her  again,  ever  forget? 

208 


PAM   DECIDES  209 

She  tried  to  think  of  Lensky,  but  his  image  came  before 
her  like  the  shadow  of  a  dream,  whereas  Peele's  white,  sec 
face, — white  and  set  as  it  had  been  the  day  she  said  good-bye 
to  him  in  the  little  station  in  Cornwall, — was  distinct,  mas- 
terful conquering. 

He  did  not  mean  to  make  love  to  her,  he  had  said,  but 
when  a  man  and  a  woman  feel  as  they  had  felt,  every  word 
uttered  is  love-making. 

Thank  God  she  should  never  see  him  again.  Ah,  yes,  God 
be  thanked,  and  yet 

He  had  never  loved  anyone  but  her.  Never  in  his  whole 
life.  And  he  was  a  handsome  man,  big,  and  strong,  and  of 
distinct  personality — the  kind  of  man  clever  women  are 
attracted  to.  And  of  all  the  women  who  must  have  at  least 
been  willing  to  be  loved  by  him,  he  had  loved  only  her, — 
Pam  Yeoland !  He  had  gone  now ;  she  was  never  to  see  him 
again;  never  again  to  feel,  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  that 
queer  tightening  of  the  chest  that  almost  hurt.  She  had  told 
him  to  go,  and  he  had  accepted  her  decree — with  great  philos- 
ophy. He  no  longer  loved  her, — thank  Heaven,  and  yet 

Hour  after  hour  the  girl  lay,  these  thoughts  whirling  in  a 
great  circle  through  her  nervous  brain. 

She  tried  to  smile  at  the  thought  of  Lensky's  return.  In 
only — how  many? — twenty  hours  he  would  be  with  her, 
dear,  strong,  comforting  Jack.  Jack  who  was  at  once  strong 
and  comforting,  and  amusing.  Jack  who — but  it  was  not 
Jack's  eyes  she  saw,  nor  Jack's  voice  she  heard.  Always  the 
eyes  and  the  voice  of  that  other  whom  she  did  not  love. 

No, — one  could  not  love  a  man  whose  face  one  had  not 


210  PAM   DECIDES 

seen  for  nearly  ten  years!  It  was  only  the  memory  of  him 
that  was  so  crucifying  her.  She  had  loved  him,  and  now  the 
ghost  of  her  mistaken  love  sat  and  gibbered  at  her  in  the 
darkness. 

At  last  she  fell  asleep  of  sheer  exhaustion  and  was  awak- 
ened in  the  middle  of  a  dream  about  Peele  by  Pilgrim's  voice. 
"  It's  nearly  ten,  Miss  Pam,  so  I  thought  I'd  better  wake  you 
up.  There's  a  letter, — from  Paris." 

Pam  sat  up  in  bed,  the  bright  morning  light  streaming  In 
on  her,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good  gracious,  Miss  Pam,  whatever  is  the  matter?" 
stammered  Pilgrim,  staring  at  her,  "  you  look  like  death !  " 

"Do  I,  Pilly?  It's  nothing;  I  slept  badly.  The  frigid 
joys  of  my  tub  matinale  will  restore  me  to  my  usual 
beauty "  but  a  glimpse  of  her  own  face  in  the  glass  oppo- 
site put  an  end  to  her  forced  banter.  The  whole  story,  the 
horror,  the  fear,-  the  shame,  seemed  written  there.  What 
would  Jack  say  ?  In  the  meantime  Lensky's  letter  was  short. 

"  MY  DEAR  PAM, — 

"  I  shall  be  with  you  at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow,  Saturday, 
evening  then.  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  you,  and  how  many 
things  we  shall  have  to  talk  about.  I  am  just  off  to  dine  at 
the  Russian  Embassy,  which  is  a  bore,  as  I  should  much  have 
preferred  going  to  the  Folies  Bergeres,  so  good-bye.  I  kiss 
your  hands,  and  am,  "  Your  affectionate 

"JEAN  DE  LENSKY." 

If  he  had  been  but  a  little  more  ardent !  If  he  had  showed 
any  great  need  of  her,  it  might  have  helped  her.  But  he  was 


PAM   DECIDES  211 

so  well-balanced,  so  calm.  lie  must  love  her,  or  he  would 
not  have  asked  her  to  marry  him,  but  his  love  was  only  a 
pleasant  accessory  to  his  comfortable,  happy  life.  If  she  had 
loved  Peele,  Lensky  would  have  bidden  her  good-bye  with 
his  beautiful  serene  smile  and  gone  his  way  undisturbed. 

But  she  did  not  love  Peele.  He  upset  and  hurt  her,  but 
she  did  not  love  him. 

Her  fear  of  the  man  was  great,  but  she  did  not  fear  any 
irresistible  act  of  her  own.  Even  if  her  dead  love  had  risen 
in  its  grave-clothes  and  beckoned  to  her,  she  would  not  have 
gone.  She  was  a  woman  of  eight-and-twenty,  and  she  could 
trust  herself.  What  she  feared  was  the  suffering,  the  blank- 
ness  of  life,  the  weary  hours  of  torturing  tread-mill  thought, 
the  bitterness  of  the  husks  of  reward  that  her  inevitable  virtue 
would  bring  her. 

When  she  had  had  a  bath  and  was  dressed,  the  sanity  that 
day  usually  brings  began  to  brighten  her  prospects. 

"  I  was  in  horrible  danger,"  she  told  herself,  "  but  it's 
over.  If  I  had  seen  him  as  well  as  heard  him,  I — yes, — I 
should  have  loved  him  again.  I  might  as  well  acknowledge 
that.  But  thank  God  I  did  not  see  him,  and  with  any  sort 
of  luck  I  ought  to  be  able  to  avoid  him, — at  any  rate  for  a 
long  time.  And  then,  if  Jack  and  I  have  children,  it  won't 
matter.  So  I'll  now  stop  thinking  about  him,  and  try  to 
behave  like  a  rational  woman.  I'll  tell  Jack  about  it, — I 
suppose  I  must  ?  Yes,  of  course  I  must !  What  if " 

She  shuddered.  What  if  Lensky  should,  after  hearing  her 
story,  decide  that  he  did  not  wish  to  marry  her!  And  then, 
how  lonely,  how  beggared,  she  should  be! 


212  PAM   DECIDES 

And  yet,  she  must  tell  him ;  she  never  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment about  that. 

When  afternoon  came  she  was  too  restless  and  nervous 
to  go  to  sit  with  the  Duchess,  so  sending  a  wire  to  the  old 
lady,  to  say  that  she  would  come  on  Sunday,  she  put  on  a 
short  skirt  and  took  a  hansom  to  43  Huntley  Street. 

Mrs.  Kingdom  was  at  home,  and  received  her  splendid 
caller  with  solemn  majesty.  Yes,  the  'ouse  went  on  much 
as  usual ;  yes,  the  Bingles  were  still  there ;  yes,  Miss  Greene 
and  Miss  Vesey  was  still  there;  Miss  Vesey  'ad  'ad  a  habscess 
on  'er  eyelid,  very  disagreeable;  no,  Mr.  Tavistock  was 
gone;  also  Mr.  Hodge.  Yes,  Mildred  was  still  there;  yes, 
Miss  Yeoland  could  see  'er  if  she  liked. 

It  was  not  an  inspiriting  visit,  and  Miss  Vesey  finding  it 
necessary,  in  view  of  Pam's  improved  circumstances,  to  talk 
a  great  deal  of  a  gentleman  friend  of  a  lady  friend  of  hers, 
who  was  a  baronet,  Pam  found  not  much  more  mental  pab- 
ulum on  the  second  floor  than  in  the  basement. 

Only  Mildred,  black-handed,  red-elbowed  as  ever,  had 
borne  the  shock  of  Pam's  prosperity  without  changing,  and 
enquired  as  affectionately  for  the  heroine  of  the  presumably- 
in-progress  new  novelette  as  if  the  author  of  that  work  were 
still  living  up  three  flights  in  the  same  house  with  her. 

Disappointed,  but  still  bent  on  turning  her  mind  away  from 
her  personal  troubles,  Pam  went  next  to  Seven  Dials,  where 
she  looked  up  several  old  acquaintances. 

These  visits,  however,  were  also  not  wholly  successful, 
for  while  the  more  independent  Seven  Diallers  seemed  dis- 
posed to  resent  her  rise  to  affluence,  and  to  suspect  in  her 


PAM   DECIDES  213 

all  sorts  of  pride  and  vainglory,  those  who  were  more  cordial 
inclined  to  borrow  money  of  her,  which,  although  she  had 
come  prepared  to  make  several  small  pecuniary  gifts,  was 
depressing. 

On  her  way  home,  however,  as  the  street  lights  burst  like 
great  flowers  into  the  dusk,  her  spirits  rose,  as  they  had  a  waj 
of  doing  at  that  hour,  and  dismissing  her  hansom,  she  went 
homewards  on  foot. 

It  was  nearly  six.  In  two  hours  Jack  would  be  with  her 
and  then,  surely,  everything  would  be  well. 

She  would  tell  him  the  whole  truth,  concealing  nothing 
and  then — he  would  console  her. 

She  had  that  day  received  from  the  locksmith  commis- 
sioned to  make  it,  a  latch-key  to  the  Little  Cowley  Street 
door.  Until  they  were  married  she  would  carry  it  with  the 
other  one,  and  then  she  would  give  it  to  him. 

Smiling  at  her  own  folly,  she  did  not  go  in  by  the  Chimes. 
Lane  entrance,  but,  walking  to  the  end  of  the  street,  turned 
back  into  Little  Cowley  Street,  and  after  standing  for  a 
moment  looking  up  at  the  house,  opened  the  door  with  the 
new  key.  As  she  took  the  key  from  the  lock  she  paused, 
met  by  a  waft  of  strong  scent ;  the  scent  of  a  great  quantity 
of  roses.  The  hall  was  dark,  and  to  reach  the  electric 
switch  she  would  have  had  to  cross  to  the  far  side  of  it. 

It  was  delightful  to  stand  there  on  her  own  threshold  with 
this  delicious  odour  rushing  to  meet  her.  Lensky  had  ot 
course  sent  the  roses — — - 

Forgetting  to  close  the  door,  she  felt  her  way  into  the 
room,  and  had  reached  the  end  of  the  screen  that  hid  the 


214  PAM    DECIDES 

door  from  the  inside  when  a  step  behind  her  caused  her  to 
turn,  and  a  man  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  covered  her 
face  with  kisses. 

"  Pam, — Pam, — it  is  not  true  that  you  are  going  to  marry 
that  man!  You  don't  love  him,  you  can't  do  it, — you  can't!  " 

For  a  moment  she  stood  as  if  paralysed  and  then  wrenched 
herself  away  from  him. 

"  Go  away,"  she  cried ;  tf  go  away.  I — I  will  not  have 
you  in  my  house !  " 

But  he  held  her  wrists  tightly.  "  I  will  not  go.  I  have 
been  following  you  for  the  last  hour.  I  have  seen  you  think- 
ing,— thinking  of  me!  And  I  love  you.  I  have  always 
loved  you,  and  since  I  saw  you  at  the  opera  a  month  ago— I 
have  thought  of  nothing  but  your  little  face, — your  dear 
little  face.  Pam," — his  voice  dropped  suddenly,  and  became 
most  gentle, — "  I  am  sorry  I  frightened  you,  but — when  the 
Duchess  told  me  of  your  engagement  to  that  little — faineant 
— I  couldn't  bear  it.  And  neither  could  you!  You  don't 
love  him." 

"  You  must  go ;  you  must  go  at  once.  I  am  going  to 
marry  Mr.  de  Lensky  " — she  said  desperately,  "  oh,  go,  for 
God's  sake!" 

For  answer  he  pressed  her  hands  to  his  face,  kissing  them 
gently,  again  and  again.  "  No.  Smell  the  roses,  sweet- 
heart. I  sent  them.  Do  you  remember  the  roses  in— 
Arcadia?  Do  you  remember  our  supper  on  the  terrace, 
and  the  nightingale?  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  I 
kissed  you?  No  one  had  kissed  you  before,  and  no  one  has 
kissed  you  since.  Am  I  not  right?" 


PAM    DECIDES  215 

"^es,"  she  said,  faintly.  Her  eyes  were  shut.  He  was 
conquering  her,  inch  by  inch,  but  he  must  not  know  it. 
With  a  great  effort  she  drew  her  hands  away  from  his  face. 

"You  are  very  unkind,"  she  began,  her  voice  steady  but 
quite  unlike  her  own,  "  and  very  unfair.  I  am  going  to 
marry  Mr.  de  Lensky,  and — I  am  very  fond  of  him.  Do 
you  want  to  make  me  ashamed  ?  " 

It  was  a  not  unskilful  appeal  and  for  a  moment  he 
hesitated. 

"  I  am  not  asking  much  of  you,"  he  returned,  after  a 
pause,  "  I  can't  marry  you,  and  I'd  rather  die  than  injure 
you  in  any  way,  but — can't  we  be  friends " 

She  burst  into  a  little  shrill,  scornful,  laugh.  "  Friends! 
You  and  I?  Ah,  don't  blaguez,  James  Peele." 

"  You  are  right.  And — if  you  tell  me  that  you  love— 
Lensky,  I'll  go— I  promise." 

"  You  break  your  promises." 

"  If  I  hadn't  seen  you  come  in, — if  you  hadn't  left  the 
door  open  I  swear  I  should  not  have  come.  There's  a  letter 
with  the  roses — you  may  believe  me.  Do  you  love  him?" 

"  I — I — yes,  I  do."     But  her  lie  was  unconvincing. 

Taking  her  hand  in  his  he  pressed  his  fingers  to  her  pulse. 
"  Pam — you  love — me,"  he  whispered,  his  lips  close  to  hers. 
And  then  as  her  traitorous  heart  bounded  towards  his  at  the 
words,  he  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  mouth.  When 
she  again  knew  where  she  was,  he  had  flown,  and  Pearson, 
whose  coming  Pam  had  not  heard  had  turned  on  the 
light. 

"  Oh,  Miss,  I  didn't  know  you  'ad  come  in      ••** 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HOW  she  lived  through  the  dinner  with  Lensky,  Pam 
never  could  remember.  He  had  greeted  her  with  a  courteous 
kiss  on  her  fingers,  he  had  asked  if  she  were  ill,  and  then 
on  her  answer  that  she  was  quite  well,  had  appeared  satisfied, 
and  changed  the  subject. 

That  much  she  could  recall.  But  what  they  talked  about 
as  Pearson  served  their  dinner  by  the  fire  in  the  hall,  whether 
she  had  eaten  or  simply  played  with  her  food,  if  Lensky  had 
known  that  something  was  wrong  or  whether,  all-mechanic- 
ally  she  had  so  played  her  role  that  he  suspected  nothing,  she 
never  knew. 

The  bright  fire  to  her  right  crackled  and  threw  splashes 
and  sprays  of  light  up  the  dark  panelling  of  the  old  room ;  it 
flamed  on  Lensky 's  eye-glass  and  painted  Pam's  white  skirt 
red.  Pearson,  neat-handed  and  light-footed,  came  in  and 
out,  pouring  out  wine,  red  and  white,  from  the  graceful, 
bubble-like  Italian  flasks,  changing  plates,  offering  the  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  food  in  the  usual  sequence.  And  Pam  and 
Lensky  talked,  for  there  was  a  sound  of  voices. 

At  last  the  meal  was  over  and  without  a  word  the  girl 
rose  and  trailed  her  delicate  skirts  down  the  passage  to  the 
White  Study. 

"  Please  smoke,''  she  said,  offering  him  a  box  filled  with 
his  own  cigarettes.  Then  she  sat  down  on  a  stool  by  the 
fire  and  held  her  icy  hands  to  the  flames, 

216 


PAM    DECIDES  217 

Without  a  word  he  fitted  a  cigarette  into  his  amber  mouth- 
piece and  began  to  smoke,  his  eyes  quietly  fixed  on  her  face. 

"Mr.   de  Lensky." 

"  Pam." 

She  looked  up,  her  lips  shaking.  "Will  you  be  patient 
while  I  tell  you?" 

"  I  am  always  patient." 

Before  she  could  begin,  as  she  sat  turning  on  her  fingei 
the  big  ruby  he  had  seen  her  pawn  that  day  over  a  year  ago, 
Big  Ben  chimed  the  quarter  past  nine. 

'O  Lord  our  God'— 

She  waited  until  the  last  vibration  had  died,  and  then  at  last 
she  spoke.  "  Mr.  de  Lensky,  I  can't  marry  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because, — because  I  cannot.  It  is  a  long  story,  and — 
telling  it  will  make  no  difference.  Must  I  tell  it  ?  " 

"  Yes."  She  watched  him  as  he  knocked  the  ash  off  his 
cigarette  and  then  put  it  back  into  his  mouth. 

"  Well, — it  is  because  I  love  someone  else.  You  remem- 
ber I  told  you  that  I  had  loved  somebody,  long  ago." 

"Yes." 

"Well, — I  still  do.  I  don't  want  to;  I  have  tried  not 
»-o;  but  I  do." 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  him?"  asked  Lensky,  gently. 

"  No.  He  is  married.  And  besides, — he  is  not  good. 
I  should  not  marry  him  even  if  he  were — free " 

"  Tell  me  about  it.     From  the  beginning." 


2i8  PAM    DECIDES 

And  slowly,  awkwardly,  honestly,  she  told  her  story,  while 
the  generous  firelight  fell  on  her  wan  little  face  with  a 
kindly  glow,  and  shone  in  her  dry  eyes. 

"  My  mother  was  not  married  to  my  father  until  I  was 
eighteen  years  old — she  ran  away  with  him  because  he  had — 
a  wife  already.  And  they  lived  together  on  the  Continent, 
chiefly  in  a  villa  my  father  bought  on  the  Riviera.  They 
named  the  Villa — Arcadia.  And  it  was  Arcadia  for  them, 
for — they  were  very  happy." 

Sometimes  her  pauses  were  short,  sometimes  very  long,  but 
Lensky  never  interrupted  her.  Cigarette  after  cigarette  he 
lighted  and  smoked,  renewing  them  continually  but  noise- 
lessly, almost  without  her  noting  his  movements. 

"  I,  of  course,  was  always  with  them.  Pilgrim  and  I. 
They  were  very  good  to  me,  but — they  didn't  need  me.'* 

"Oh  Lord  our  God" 
interrupted  the  chimes, 

"Be  thou  our  Guide"— 

"  And  so  I  grew  up,  until  I  was  about  ten.  Then  one  day 
my  grandfather  Lord  Yeoland's,  steward,  Christopher  Caza- 
let,  who  had  always  been  fond  of  my  mother,  came  to  the 
Villa  to  look  her  up,  and  he  saw  me.  He  thought  it — a  pity 
that  I  should  live  that  kind  of — unusual  life,  without  any  reg- 
ular education,  and  so  on,  and  so  he  told  my  grandfather 
about  me,  and  my  grandfather  had  me  come  to  live  with  him. 
I  was  a  funny  little  thing,  and — spoiled,  I  suppose,  and  I 
amused  him  very  much.  And, — Father  and  Mother  of 


PAM   DECIDES  219 

course  didn't  know  many  people,  and  they  knew  some  very 
unconventional  ones, — other  people  who  weren't  married, 
you  know;  and  in  England  the  few  married  couples  I  knew 
didn't — care  as  Father  and  Mother  did.  I  think  no  people 
ever  did  care  as  much  as  they  do.  And  so  I  got  it  into  my 
head  that — that  marriage  was  a  mistake,  and  that  all  un- 
married people  are  unhappy — (and  I  still  think  most  of  'em 
are!)  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  never  marry.  You 
see?" 

"  I  see." 

"  And  then,  when  I  was  seventeen  I  met  a  man — I  met 
him.  He  was  a  great  deal  older  than  I  and  he  was  engaged 
to  a  lady  I  knew.  I  admired  him  very  much,  for  he  was 
very  clever  and  very  interesting,  but — that  was  all,  then. 
And  one  day  my  father's — my  father's  wife  wrote  to  me 
from  a  country  town  that  she  was  ill  and  lonely,  and  wanted 
to  see  me.  And  I  went.  My  grandfather  was  very  angry 
and  wouldn't  forgive  me  for  a  long  time,  but  I'm  glad  I 
went.  She  liked  me,  and  she  enjoyed  talking  to  me  about 
my  father.  She  loved  him,  too."  After  a  long  pause  she 
went  on,  clearing  her  throat,  and  sitting  up,  "  And  just  by 
chance  he  lived  near  by,  and  I  used  to  go  to  see  him.  He 
was  very  nice  to  me  and  I  liked  him  very  much.  Then  one 
day  Mrs.  Kennedy, — Father's  wife, — Father  was  an  opera 
singer,  and  had  changed  his  name  to  Sacheverell, — died, — 
and  I  went  back  to  Father  and  Mother.  Oh,  and  Mrs. 
Kennedy,  poor  thing,  made  me  promise  just  before  she  died, 
to  make  them  marry.  She  thought  that  they  were — wicked, 
you  see, — and  that  she  should  have  divorced  him  so  that  he 


220  PAM   DECIDES 

could  marry  Mother.  So  when  I  went  back  I  persuaded 
them  to  marry,  and  they  did.  And  the  evening  of  the  wed- 
ding, when  they  had  gone  away, — and  I  was  all  alone, — he 


"Oh  Lord  our  God 
Be  Thou  our  Guide, 
That  by  Thy   Help"— 


Breaking  off  in  her  narration  Pam  repeated  the  quaint  old 
words,  as  the  chimes  played  the  tune. 

"  There  didn't  seem  much  help  about  it  then,"  she  added*, 
simply.  "  I  loved  him,  and  he  loved  me.  And  though  he 
was  engaged  and  it  would  have  ruined  his  political  career  to 
marry  me,  he  wanted  to  do  it.  I  must,"  she  added  to  her- 
self, but  aloud,  "  always  remember  that." 

Lensky  watched  her  closely,  his  sleek  head  bending  to- 
wards her  in  the  attitude  so  characteristic  of  him. 

"  He  insisted  that  I  must  marry  him,"  she  went  on  after 
a  pause,  during  which  she  pressed  back  into  the  fire  a  stick 
that  threatened  to  fall  out,  "  he  tried  his  best  to  make  me  say 
I  would.  And  I  wouldn't.  I — offered  to  go  away  with 
him, — as  Mother  had  done  with  Father,  only  he  wasn't 
married  as  poor  Father  was, — but  I  insisted  that  married 
people  stopped  loving  each  other,  and  that  we  must  not  run 
the  risk.  And  then  I  saw  the  girl  he  was  engaged  to  and 
she  was  good  to  me,  and  she  adored  him,  and  so,  after  chop- 
ping and  changing  like  an  utter  idiot,  I  ran  away  with 
Pilgrim,  deciding  to  give  him  up  for  ever.  And  then  my 
cousin,  Lady  Chesney,  married,  and  I  saw  him  at  the  wed- 


PAM    DECIDES  221 

ding, — and  it  began  all  over  again.  But — his  wedding-day 
was  fixed,  and  it  was  too  late  to  break  his  engagement — and 
— and — and  then  my  grandfather  died  suddenly  and  my 
Father  and  Mother  had  gone  to  Japan,  and  I  was  all  alone, 
and  so  he — he  wanted " 

She  broke  off,  floundering  hopelessly,  her  face  crimson. 

"  I  understand,"  commented  Lensky,  gravely. 

"And  I  thought  he  meant  he  would  break  his  engage- 
ment,— it  was  very  silly  of  me, — and  when  I  understood, — 
Pilly  and  I  came  to  London." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  Lensky  put  his 
cigarette  holder  into  his  pocket,  and  rose. 

"  And  you  never  saw  him  again  until  just  now." 

It  was  an  affirmation  rather  than  a  question,  but  the 
girl,  rising,  too,  nodded.  "  No." 

"  And  now  you  love  him  again  ?  " 

"  Had  I  ever  stopped  ?  "  she  asked  sadly. 

"  Poor  old  Pam."  He  took  her  hands  and  held  them 
gently  in  his.  "  I  am  so  sorry.  And  he  loves  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  the  same  with  him.  Until  this  afternoon  I 
thought  that  as — my  feeling  for  you  is  so  much — better  (I 
have  sense  enough  to  know  that), — that — the  other  need 
not  count.  And  I  meant  to  ask  you  to  trust  me." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  curiously,  "  that  you  wanted 
to  marry  me  in  spite  of  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Until  this  afternoon.  It  is  very  illogical  and 
absurd,  I  know,  but  I — I  do  like  you  so  much  more  than 
him,  and  I  feel  so — so  safe  writh  you." 

For  9*  moment  he  was  silent,  and  smiling  at  her  with 


222  PAM    DECIDES 

a  wonderful  grave  tenderness,  he  said  "  Then,  marry 
me." 

But  she  flushed  crimson,  drawing  away  her  hands. 

"  No,  no !  This  afternoon  he — he  kissed  me, — oh,  I 
couldn't  help  it,  indeed  I  couldn't, — and — and  I  never  could 
marry  anyone  after  that." 

"  I  understand.  And — you  are  right.  Now  good-bye,  my 
dear,  as  your  lover.  As  your  friend  it  will  never  be  good- 
bye." Bowing  over  her  hand  he  kissed  it,  and  as  he  did  so 
Big  Ben  sang  his  completed  verse : 


"Oh  Lord  our  God 
Be  Thou  our  Guide, 
That  by  Thy  Help 
No  foot  may  slide." 


PART     THREE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  Mediterranean,  less  blue  than  the  Adriatic,  less  grey 
than  the  Atlantic,  seems  to  be  possessed  of  an  amiable  indif- 
ference possibly  best  described  by  the  word  "  jemenfichisme." 

So  when  Nizza  became  Nice  and  the  inhabitants  of  that 
part  of  the  azure  coast  found  themselves,  when  they  spoke 
in  their  mother-tongue,  using  a  foreign  language,  it  is  to  be 
assumed  that  the  waters  lapping  on  that  coast  lapped  on  in 
entire  indifference  as  to  whether  they  lapped  against  Italian 
or  French  shores. 

One  can  imagine  the  hills  mourning  their  sold  birthright; 
and  there  are  those  to  whom  the  coastline  is  so  Italian  in  its 
atmosphere  that  it  seems  absurd  to  call  it  French,  but  no  one 
with  any  imagination  can  fancy  even  a  momentary  rebellion 
on  the  part  of  the  waves  that,  crawling  up  expecting  to  salute 
Italy,  found  themselves  bestowing  kisses  on  France.  "  Je 
men  fiche"  said  the  nonchalant  water,  and  laughed  as  usual. 

Therefore,  it  matters  little  whether  the  Villa  in  which 
Guy  Sacheverel  and  Pauline  Yeoland  lived  so  many  years  of 
their  lives  lay  in  Italy  or  in  France. 

It  stood,— or  rather  sat,  for  whoever  stands  in  that  sunny 
land,  when  sitting  is  a  possibility? — in  a  dishevelled  garden 
on  a  hill  sloping  back  from  the  water,  and  for  them  was 
neither  in  Italy  nor  in  France.  It  was  Arcadia. 

The  house  was  a  long,  flat,  intrinsically  rather  ugly  build- 

223 


224  PAM   DECIDES 

ing,  originally  covered  with  shell-pink  plaster  that  even  when 
Sacheverel  bought  it  had  faded,  and  that  the  sun  and  rain 
of  twenty-eight  subsequent  years  had  mellowed  to  a  very 
shabby  but  poetic,  rosy  yellow. 

There  was  a  terrace  from  which  mossy  and  slippery  stone 
steps  led  into  a  neglected  olive-grove  that  sloped  seaward; 
a  high  wall  on  which  crept  in  friendly  confusion  roses, 
jessamine,  and  giant  heliotrope;  two  tall  stone-pines  intro- 
ducing into  the  sunny  picture  the  dark  note  so  effectively  used 
by  Turner;  and  a  huge  magnolia  whose  glossy  leaves  seemed 
on  a  dazzling  day  to  give  out  a  light  of  their  own. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  lay  this  deserted  Arcadia, 
almost,  in  its  over-luxuriance  of  flowers,  worthy  of  the  Belle 
aux  Bois  Dormant,  lay  a  small  white  city;  a  city  white 
and  gold  in  the  winter,  white  with  dust  and  golden  with 
sunlight,  cold  in  the  shadow,  too  warm  in  the  sun,  eye- 
dazzling,  fatiguing,  and  stimulating  at  once  as  such  cities 
are  wont  to  be. 

One  morning  in  the  May  following  the  December  in 
which  she  had  left  London,  Pamela  Yeoland  came  out  on  the 
lawn  from  one  of  the  windows  of  the  Villa  Arcadia,  and 
walked  slowly  down  the  neglected  roadway  towards  the 
gate. 

She  walked  carefully,  seeking  for  her  feet  the  smoothest 
places,  keeping  on  the  shady  side  of  the  drive ;  her  bent  head 
was  bare,  and  the  splashes  and  blotches  of  sunlight  that  came 
through  the  leafy  boughs  above  gleamed  on  a  dozen  different 
shades  of  hair,  from  deep  shadowy  brown  to  a  bright  bronze, 
for  her  hair  was  plaited  and  arranged  like  a  cap  extending 


PAM   DECIDES  225 

from  the  nape  of  her  neck  almost  to  her  brow,  over  which 
a  few  loose  tendrils  twisted  and  waved.  Anyone  who  had 
seen  her  during  those  last  days  in  London  would  in  looking 
at  her  now  have  found  a  curious  change  in  her  face.  She 
looked  younger  than  she  had  six  months  before,  for  her  face 
was  fuller,  and  she  was  browned  by  the  sun  and  reddened 
until  her  smooth  eheeks  were  nearly  the  colour  of  a  ripe 
peach;  but  something  had  gone  from  her  expression,  some- 
thing of  youth  and  transition,  and  in  the  firmness  of  her  red 
mouth  one  saw  that  her  hour  of  indecision  was  over,  her 
way  taken. 

She  would  now  no  longer  be  called  a  girl  as  most  people 
would  have  termed  her  a  year  ago.  She  was  a  woman,  and 
a  woman  who  had  deliberately,  and  not  without  satisfaction, 
left  youth  behind  her. 

Even  her  dress  showed  something  of  a  conscious  aim  at 
young  middle-age,  for  it  was  of  a  sober  brown  hue,  though, 
in  deference  to  the  heat  of  the  day,  of  delicate  muslin. 

When  she  reached  the  unpainted  gate  leading  to  the  white 
road  without,  she  turned  and  came  back  to  the  end  of  the 
double  line  of  trees,  her  head  still  bent,  her  steps  almost 
solemnly  careful,  after  which  she  again  started  towards  the 
gate. 

And  then,  on  the  radiant,  fragrant  air  fell  a  strange  indefi- 
nite noise,  a  noise  soft  and  pleasant,  a  noise  low  and  shy  and 
quaint. 

It  was  what  Pam  herself  called  for  lack  of  a  better  name, 
singing,  and  she  was  trying  to  sing  to  the  baby  she  held  in 
her  arms. 


226  PAM   DECIDES 

**  II  etait  une  bergere, 
He  ron  he  ron,  petit  patapon, 
II  etait  une  bergere 
Qui  gardait  ses  raoutons,  ron,  ron, 
Qui  gardait  ses  moutone. 

"  How  do  you  like  it,  Miss  Pamela  Wantage?  "  she  asked, 
pausing  and  looking  down  at  the  wee  face.  "  You  never 
heard  such  singing  in  your  life,  now  did  you  ?  " 

Miss  Pamela  Wantage  aged  a  fortnight  and  two  days,  did 
not  answer,  for  obvious  reasons,  and  the  song  was  resumed. 
From  time  to  time  the  elder  Pam  glanced  towards  a  shaded 
window  of  the  Villa,  and  once  a  black-veiled  nursing-sister 
appeared  at  it,  pushing  aside  the  curtain  and  peering  out 
into  the  sun. 

"He  ron,  ron,  ron,  petit  patapon, 

So  tu  y  rnets  la  patte 
Tu  auras  du  baton  ron,  ron, 
Tu  auras  du  baton ! " 

In  their  measured  walk  the  two  Pams  had  again  reached 
the  gate,  and  as  they  turned  it  opened,  and  a  little  man  in 
a  shabby  uniform  appeared. 

"  Buon  giornOj  Signorina, — ah,  and  the  little  one  who 
takes  the  air!  " 

"  Morning,  Sandro.  Yes, — she  is  having  a  walk.  Let- 
ters? "  the  postman  opened  his  dusty  pouch  and  produced  a 
newspaper  and  three  letters.  Then  he  took  off  his  cap  and 
wiped  his  forehead.  "  It  is  an  infernal  heat,"  he  observed. 
"  How  is  the  poor  lady?  " 

"  She  is  just  about  the  same,  thank  you,  Sandro, — I  fear 
very  ill." 


PAM   DECIDES  227 

"  Gia.  And  if  she  should  be  taken,  it  is  a  pity  that  God 
in  His  wisdom  didn't  make  the  baby  a  masculine.  The 
feminines  need  more  the  mother." 

The  man  was,  as  Pam  knew,  ».  frank  disbeliever,  like  many 
of  his  class,  but  his  easy  and  unembarrassed  references  to  the 
God  in  whom  he  had  no  credence,  was  an  amiable  habit, 
quite  without  sarcasm. 

"And  the  Signorino?" 

"  The  Little  Young  Gentleman  is  naturally  very  sad,"  re- 
turned Pam,  changing  the  baby's  moist  head  from  the  hollow 
of  her  left  elbow  to  the  hollow  of  her  right,  "  but  he  is 
calmer." 

It  was  an  immense  relief  to  her  to  know  that  Wantage, 
whose  youthful  manner  had  won  for  him  the  half-affec- 
tionate, half-slighting  name  of  Signorino,  was  in  his  bed  and 
sound  asleep.  His  despair  over  his  wife's  dangerous  illness 
was  troublesome  as  well  as  pitiable,  and  the  silence  con- 
tingent on  his  slumber  more  than  grateful  to  ears  tortured 
for  many  hours  by  his  loud  lamentations. 

The  postman  put  on  his  hat.  "  Speriamo,  then,"  he  ob- 
served with  pessimistic  cheerfulness ;  "  let  us  hope  that  the 
poor  Signora  will  recover.  The  Madonna  and  the  Saints 
be  merciful  to  her."  With  a  last  friendly  salute  he  went 
his  way,  and  Pam  stood  looking  at  the  letters  she  held. 

"  Dear  old  Duchess,"  she  said  aloud.  Then  she  frowned, 
for  the  second  letter  was  from  Peele.  The  baby  was  sleep- 
ing soundly ;  would  to  all  appearances  sleep  for  another  hour 
when  she  would,  Pam  knew,  out  of  her  new  wisdom,  roar 
lustily  for  refreshment. 


228  PAM   DECIDES 

After  a  moment's  reflection  the  girl  crossed  the  rough 
lawn  to  her  right,  and  cradling  the  baby  most  tenderly  in 
her  arms,  went  down  the  steps  into  the  olive-grove. 

Here  the  grass  was  sparse  and  tufted,  and  dangerous  from 
the  twisted  surface-roots  of  the  grey  old  trees.  Below,  on 
the  right  a  red  roof  nestled  among  glossy  foliage,  and  to  the 
left  a  winding  path  led  to  the  glittering  sea. 

Pam  sat  down  under  a  tree  and,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  for 
the  wee  baby  was  sufficiently  heavy  in  her  long  clothes,  laid 
the  child  on  her  knees. 

First  she  read  the  Duchess'  letter,  which  was  long  and 
written  on  three  different  kinds  of  paper. 

"  My  dear  Pam,"  wrote  the  old  lady,  "  I  was  immensely 
relieved  at  hearing  from  you,  though  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  you  were  all  right,  and  though  I  think  you  might  have 
written  before.  Do  you  know,  viper,  that  it  is  over  three 
months  since  you  wrote  to  me?  I  am  glad  that  poor  little 
woman's  baby  has  come  home  safely  and  that  you  have  such 
a  good  nurse  for  her,  though  I  still  think  you  rather  an  idiot 
to  have  saddled  yourself  with  her  and  her  husband.  How- 
ever, that  is  your  own  affair.  Yesterday  I  saw  Jack  Lensky 
at  the  Penges', — those  steel-pills  people.  He  is  said  to 
admire  the  second  daughter,  the  one  who  married  Lord 
Freddy  Fane  and  divorced  him  after  six  months.  She  is 
certainly  amazingly  good-looking, — a  little  like  you  only  a 
thousand  times  handsomer.  He  looks  very  well  and  says 
he's  greatly  enjoying  the  season  which,  mark  you,  /  believe. 
It's  not  pique  that  makes  him  say  it  to  me,  your  friend,  as 


PAM   DECIDES  229 

irt  would  be  in  the  case  of  most  men.  He  asked  for  your 
news,  which  I  gave  him.  Lady  Freddy  is  evidently  taken 
with  him,  though  she  is  a  young  woman  of  much  dignity  and 
does  not  go  on  in  Alys  Compton's  way,  which  is  a  blessing. 
Alys,  on  dit,  has  filed  a  petition  for  divorce,  which  has  its 
funny  side! 

"  I  last  saw  her  at  Dolly  Hetley's  wedding.  Did  I  write 
you  about  that  function?  St.  Peter's  was  packed  and  the 
incomparable  Ratty  looked  really  rather  well  in  his  uniform. 

"  Evelyn  has  been  in  Paris  buying  much  pink  finery.  She 
wears  only  pink  or  white  nowadays,  which  is  wise  of  her. 
Henrietta  is  not  well,  but  Marmy  is  much  stronger  and  has 
a  pony. 

"James  I  saw  last  at  the  Academy  last  week.  He  has 
been  ill,  but  bears  his  honours  with  dignity.  Henny  was 
very  anxious  for  him  to  refuse  the  appointment  and  go  back 
into  active  politics,  but  he  wouldn't.  This  Chancellorship  of 
course,  brings  him  a  very  good  income,  but  he  is  too  young 
to  live  the  life  he  does. 

"  Now  my  dear,  write  to  me  again  and  tell  me  your  plans. 
I  was  very  good  about  your  scandalous  behaviour  to  poor 
Lensky,  and  never  scolded  you  at  all,  so  I  think  I  deserve 
your  confidence.  I  have  not  told  a  single  soul  where  you  are, 
either.  When  are  you  coming  back?  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
your  pride,  but  you  really  needn't  stay  away  out  of  considera- 
tion for  Jack's  feelings.  He  seems  to  me  to  havi  entirely 
recovered.  My  dear  love  to  you. 

"  Affectionately  yours, 

"  ELIZA  WIGHT." 


230  PAM    DECIDES 

The  baby  slept,  its  small  mulberry-coloured  face  tranquil. 
Pam  put  her  letter  back  into  its  envelope,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  without  moving.  "  Lady  Freddy  Fane ;  Miss  Penge 
of  the  Pills!  I  wonder  whether  he'll  marry  her,"  she 
thought.  "  I  should  like  to  see  her.  He  can  hardly  like 
her  for  her  resemblance  to  me — poor  girl! — I  wonder  why 
he  did  care  for  me!  " 

For  several  minutes  her  thoughts  ran  on  in  the  same 
strain,  before  she  allowed  herself  to  think  of  Peele's  letter 
which  lay,  with  one  for  Cyril  Wantage,  on  the  grass  beside 
her. 

"  He  might  know,"  she  reflected  coldly,  glancing  at  the 
envelope,  "  that  there's  no  use  in  writing!  " 

Then  moving  a  little  to  keep  the  child  out  of  a  suddenly 
arrived  ray  of  sunlight,  she  went  on  to  herself  about  Len- 
sky.  "  How  I  wish  he'd  write  to  me !  How  I'd  love  to 
see  him.  Perhaps,  if  it's  really  true  about  Lady  Freddy,  he 
will  write.  He  said  we  should  always  be  friends — oh, 
if  he  should  only  come  over  the  grass  towards  me  this  min- 
ute, how  I  should  fly  at  him, — and  probably  drop  and 
squash  vou,  Miss,"  she  finished  aloud,  to  the  unconscious 
baby. 

Then,  as  a  tall,  slowly-moving  woman  appeared  on  the 
terrace  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  grey  shadows  of  the 
olives,  Pam  the  Greater  rose  gAigerly,  and  carried  Pam  the 
Less  up  the  slope. 

"Eh  angioletto!  Eh  agnellino!"  murmured  the  nurse,  a 
placid-faced  woman  with  gold  hoop-earrings  and  a  gay  plaid 
gown,  "  I  can  see  thee  grow,  my  pretty!  And  you,  Signer- 


PAM    DECIDES  231 

ina,"  she  added,  turning,   "  the   Signora,  povera  anima,  is 
awake  and  asking  for  you." 

Pam  nodded  and  pausing  to  pick  from  one  of  the  mossy 
and  broken  urns  that  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  she  had 
just  come  up,  a  great  handful  of  dark  heliotrope,  went  quickly 
»vcr  the  grass  to  the  open  drawing-room  window. 


CHAPTER   II 

MARY  WANTAGE  lay  in  her  narrow  bed  in  the  corner 
of  the  brick-floored  room,  her  fair  hair  cut  close  to  her  head, 
her  hollow  eyes  only  half  open. 

By  her,  on  a  table,  stood  some  bottles,  a  clinical  thermom- 
|eter  and  a  little  ebony  crucifix  on  a  marble  pedestal.  The 
room  was  dusky  and  comparatively  cool,  but  sweat  stood  on 
the  sick  woman's  pallid  face,  and  the  Sister  of  Mercy  by  her 
was  fanning  her  with  a  gay-coloured  fan,  a  souvenir  of  the 
Casino  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

"Where  is— Cyril?" 

"  He's  asleep,  Mary  dear.  You  know  how  worn  out  he 
was," — Pam  took  the  fan  and  the  sister  silently  left  the 
room. 

"Where  is  the  baby?" 

"  Just  gone  to  dinner,"  returned  Pam,  cheerfully,  fanning 
her  as  she  spoke.  "  She's  as  good  as  an  angel,  and  I've  hat1 
her  for  the  last  hour.  How  you'll  enjoy  her  when  she's  a 
little  older." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  said  quieCy,  "  no." 
After  a  moment  she  went  on,  looking  at  tht  girl,  "'  Pam, — • 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

"What  do  I  know?" 

"  That  I'm  dying.  And — I  don't  see  why  yf*l  won't 
acknowledge  it!  I'm  not  afraid.  And  I've  known  all 
along." 

232 


PAM    DECIDES  233 

For  a  minute  Pam  looked  at  her,  and  then,  laying  down 
the  fan,  said  gravely,  "  Have  you,  Mary?" 

Mrs.  Wantage  gave  a  little  smile  of  content. 

"  Thank  you !  Yes,  I  have.  You  see,  I've  always  been 
so  delicate, — and  I  shouldn't  mind,  except  for  him  and  her. 
And — who  is  to  tell  him  ?  " 

Pam  had  known  for  the  last  ten  days  that  the  poor  little 
woman  was  dying,  but  she  had  been  afraid  to  tell  Wantage, 
whom  the  slightest  hint  about  his  wife's  being  in  a  dangerous 
condition  threw  into  an  almost  hysterical  condition  as  irri- 
tating, to  the  girl,  as  it  was  pitiful.  Now,  laying  her  hand 
on  the  sick  woman's,  she  said  quietly,  "  I  think  you  must 
tell  him.  It  is — his  right." 

"Oh,  poor  Cyril!  Is  it  not  sad  for  him?  And  just 
when  he  is  doing  so  well,  too.  Well, — if  you'll  send  him  to 
me,  I  will  tell  him.  But, — what  about  my  poor  little  baby? 
He  can't  take  care  of  her.  If  she  were  only  a  boy!  " 

The  sunken  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Pam  arose.  "  No, — he  can't  take  care  of  her, — they 
would  be  in  each  other's  way, — but — I'll  take  care  of  her, 
Mary." 

"  Oh — but — you'll  marry  some  day.  I  hope  you  will, 
Pam,  for  you  deserve  to  be  happy." 

Pam,  even  at  that  moment,  had  to  bite  her  Jfo  to  sup- 
press a  smile.  That  this  poor  little  thing  out  of  vvhom  the 
pover  to  live  had  literally  been  starved,  should  identify  happi- 
ness with  matrimony! 

Then,  leaning  over  the  bed  and  kissing  Mary  Wantage's 
damp  cheek  she  said  "  No,  I  shall  never  marry.  And — little 


234  PAM    DECIDES 

Pam  shall  be — my  daughter.  So  do  not  trouble  about 
her." 

Then  she  went  into  Wantage's  room  where  he  lay  fully 
dressed  on  his  bed,  one  arm  under  his  head,  and  gently 
waked  him. 

"  Wake  up,  Cyril, — Mary  wants  you — Mary  wants  you." 

"  Then  she  must  be  better,"  he  cried,  springing  up  and 
rubbing  his  sleep-blurred  eyes,  "she  is  better,  isn't  she?" 
Then  seeing  her  grave  face  he  burst  into  a  sob.  "  Oh,  she 
isn't  worse,  you  needn't  try  to  frighten  me " 

"  Go  to  her,  and  try  not  to  distress  her.     Try  to  be  brave." 

When  she  had  seen  the  sick-room  door  close  behind  him 
she  went  to  the  end  of  the  passage  and  into  her  own  room. 

From  a  drawer  she  took  her  battered  old  tin  despatch  box 
and  opening  it  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  letters 
lying  in  it.  There  were  three  letters,  all  unopened,  and  all 
addressed  by  James  Peele. 

"  He  will  surely  soon  stop  writing  if  I  never  answer  him," 
she  told  herself,  an  obstinate  set  to  her  lips,  "  and  I  would 
rather  die  than  write/' 

Then  adding  to  the  pile  of  letters  the  one  she  had  re- 
ceived an  hour  ago  she  locked  the  box,  put  it  away,  and  sat 
down. 

Two  rooms  away  poor  little  Mary  Wantage  lay  dying, 
and  her  husband  was  in  genuine  despair.  Pam  was  deeply 
sorry  for  them  both.  She  had,  shortly  after  her  flight  to 
this  long-deserted  place,  written  to  Wantage,  on  hearing 
that  Mary  was  rapidly  losing  strength,  to  bring  his  wife  to 
her;  she  had  sent  the  money  necessary  for  the  journey,  and, 


PAM    DECIDES  235 

glad  of  the  occupation  as  well  as  full  of  compassion,  devoted 
all  her  energies  to  the  task  of  curing  the  sick  woman. 

,Day  after  day  she  had  sat  by  Mary,  reading  to  her,  sew- 
ing, in  her  clumsy  way,  for  her,  talking  to  her  about  the 
coming  baby,  building  beautiful  air-castles  to  amuse  her. 
And  while,  underneath,  her  own  wild  pain  and  rebellion 
throbbed  and  tortured  her,  the  girl  spared  no  labour  to 
render  more  durable  the  poor  woman's  dreary  time  of  wait- 
ing. As  unselfish  as  if  Mary  Wantage  had  been  her  own 
sister  she  had  cared  for  and  tended  her,  and  then  when 
night  came,  and  she  was  alone,  James  Peek's  image  came 
back  from  his  banishment  and  tortured  her  till  dawn. 

She  loved  the  man,  that  she  had  owned  bravely  from  the 
moment  when  he  had  kissed  her  in  the  Hall  in  her  own 
house  in  London.  It  would,  she  felt,  have  been  an  absurdity 
to  deny  this  to  herself  after  telling  it  to  Lensky,  but  she 
tried  to  counterbalance,  and  in  a  great  measure  succeeded 
in  counterbalancing  this  avowal  by  her  equally  frank  admis- 
sion of  the  man's  unworthiness  to  be  loved.  "  I  do  not  like, 
nor  respect,  nor  admire  him,"  she  told  herself,  "  I  only 
love  him." 

And  without  faltering  for  so  much  as  a  second,  she  refused 
to  face  the  possibility  of  ever  again  seeing  him.  Her  plan 
was  very  simple.  When  a  year  had  passed  she  would  write 
and  tell  him  that  unless  he  would  promise  never  to  try  to  see 
her,  she  must  consider  herself  banished  from  London.  She 
would  explain  to  him  that  while  his  physical  presence  exercised 
over  her  an  invincible  fascination,  she  was  ashamed  of  the  feel- 
ing, and  would  rather  never  again  set  foot  in  England  than 


236  PAM   DECIDES 

run  the  risk  of  seeing  him.  And  then,  quite  frankly  she  would 
throw  herself  on  his  mercy  and  beg  him  not  to  persecute  her. 

For  six  weeks  after  leaving  home  this  plan  had  appeared 
to  her  a  fully  satisfactory  one,  and  then — he  had  written, 
and  every  nerve  in  her  body  had  quivered  as  she  recognised 
his  writing. 

After  a  struggle  that  lasted  a  whole  night  she  had  con- 
quered her  desire  to  read  the  letter,  but  being  unable  to 
burn  it,  she  had  locked  it  into  her  old  despatch  box — in  which 
years  ago  she  had  kept  a  note  from  him  and  a  rose  he  had 
worn  in  his  coat, — unopened. 

In  March  another  letter  had  come,  and  in  early  April 
another,  both  to  meet  with  the  same  fate.  And  of  course 
as  she  conquered,  the  girl  grew  stronger,  and  now  the  baby, — 
the  baby  that  was,  by  such  a  strange  turn  of  the  wheel,  to 
be  hers, — was  there  to  help  her. 

That  poor  little  Mary  was  dying  was  sad;  very  sad  for 
Mary  herself  and  for  Cyril,  whose  better  nature  was  bound 
dp  in  hers,  but  Pam  loved  neither  of  them  with  a  very  deep 
affection,  though,  having  helped  them,  she  was  of  course 
attached  to  them  both,  whereas  the  baby — it  had  been  hers 
from  the  hour  it  was  born,  and  she  loved  it.  She  had  been 
hurt  by  Lensky's  silence.  She  had  not  written  to  him,  but 
he  could  have  sent  a  letter  to  her  house  in  Westminster,  and 
she  had  longed  for  news  with  a  sort  of  hurt  loneliness  that 
had  lasted  until  the  wee  Pam  had  come.  Ratty  would  have 
written,  she  knew,  in  the  circumstances,  and  poor  Charnley 
Burke,  though  in  his  own  case  he  had  written  only  when  he 
was  dying,  would,  had  he  parted  from  her  as  Lensky  did. 


PAM   DECIDES  237 

have  sent  her  flowers,  or  sweets,  and  a  clumsily  expressed 
plea  for  news. 

But  Lensky,  as  she  knew  from  the  Duchess  and  from  the 
newspapers,  was  going  about  as  usual,  leading  cotillons,  driv- 
ing in  his  little  brown  victoria,  admiring  handsome  women, 
dining,  wining,  riding,  exactly  as  if  he  had  never  known  her. 
The  Pam  incident,  she  told  herself  with  a  little  pang,  was 
closed,  and  it  had  left  him  as  it  found  him,  cool,  serene,  de- 
lightful, interested  in  the  daily  round  of  work  and  amuse- 
ment, enjoying  life  in  his  calm  yet  whole-hearted  way. 

And  she,  who  in  all  her  life  before  had  never  really  longed 
for  a  friend,  regretted  this  friendship  that  had  after  all  been 
something  else  with  a  keenness  that  occasionally  amounted  to 
a  positive  passion  of  loneliness.  So  now,  as  she  went  to  the 
nurse's  room,  it  was  of  her  lost  friend  and  not  of  her  lost 
love  that  she  thought,  for  having  resolutely  refused  to  indulge 
in  thoughts  of  that  love  it  had  at  last  gradually  withdrawn 
from  the  centre  of  her  mind,  where  it  had  at  first  stood  rant- 
ing and  mouthing  like  a  selfish  actor,  and  dwelt,  always  liv- 
ing, always  suffering,  in  decent  obscurity  in  the  back  of  her 
consciousness.  Contentedly  aware  that  her  struggle  over 
each  subsequent  letter  of  Peele's  was  less  than  the  preceding 
one,  then,  she  thought  with  a  little  pang  of  T/ensky,  as  she 
went  down  the  passage.  "  It  is  hard  to  have  lost  my  friend, 
too, — "  she  said. 

But  there  on  the  nurse's  lap  lay  the  new,  the  brand-new 
Pam.  A  Pam  whose  life  was  to  be  so  different  from  her 
god-mother's;  a  Pam  who  was  to  be  taken  care  of,  loved, 
•without  a  rival ;  a  Pam  who  was  not  "  to  know  best." 


CHAPTER   III 

A  WEEK  later  Pam  stood  on  the  platform  of  the  dingy 
black  station  of  the  white  city  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  by  the 
.sea.  She  had  just  said  good-bye  to  Cyril  Wantage,  who  had 
gone  back  to  London,  where  the  Lepidoptera  Britannica  was 
supposed  to  have  greatly  suffered  by  his  prolonged  absence. 

Poor  little  Mary  had  been  buried  the  day  before,  and 
Wantage,  dazed  and  quiet  after  his  first  wild  grief,  was  be- 
having better  than  Pam  had  ventured  to  hope. 

He  had  left  his  baby  without  reluctance,  glad  to  know  the 
poor  little  creature  was  in  good  hands,  and  now  Pam  was 
alone  with  the  child  that,  as  she  put  it,  had  come  to  her  by 
such  roundabout  ways. 

Going  back  through  the  wicketed  sortie,  the  girl  turned  to 
her  left,  and  made  her  way  through  the  dul!  walled  street 
to  the  heart  of  the  town,  where  she  had  some  shopping  to  do. 
She  must  buy  some  wool  of  which  Pilgrim,  reluctant  but 
adoring  deputy-grandmother,  was  to  fabricate  socks  for  the 
baby;  she  must  go  to  the  library  at  which,  years  before,  the 
Duchess  had  seen  her  name  on  a  parcel  of  books,  and  thus 
quite  by  chance  discovered  her  whereabouts ;  she  must  try  on 
two  frocks,  and  buy  some  chocolate. 

As  she  walked,  swinging  along  the  slippery  street  at  het 
usual  rapid  gait,  her  heart  rose  suddenly. 

"  Sursum  corda,"  she  said  to  herself,  "but  why?  I  am 

238 


PAM    DECIDES  239 

wny  about  poor  little  Mary,  and  that  helpless  duffer  Cyril. 
I  shall  miss  them  both.  Only — wee  Pammy  is  mine,  mine 
own  tiny  baby,  and  somehow  God  seems  splendidly  near  to 
His  world,  this  dark  day !  " 

It  was,  though  she  did  not  try  to  analyse  it,  the  natural 
reaction  after  the  days  of  depression  contingent  or  Mary 
Wantage's  illness  and  death.  The  dead  were  gone,  the  living 
remained,  and  the  beauty  and  poetry  of  the  new  life  just 
beginning  were  helping  to  heal  the  wounds  that  the  meeting 
with  Peele  had  left  gaping  in  her  heart. 

She  must  love  James  Peele  until  she  died,  and  no  doubt 
would  not  stop  then,  but  now  that  she  had  a  new,  innocent 
healthy  love  to  counterbalance  that  one  of  which  she  was  so 
ashamed,  hope  itself  had  come  back. 

The  woman  who  sold  the  pink  and  white  wool  was  most 
sympathetic.  "  Poor  lady,"  she  said,  as  Pam  critically  studied 
two  shades  of  delicate  rose-colour,  "  it  was  very  sad  for  her. 
And  the  baby,  Mademoiselle?" 

"  The  baby  is  mine.  I  am  to  keep  her  always.  She  is 
named  for  me." 

"  Really,  Mademoiselle?  Ah  well,  I  remember  Mademoi- 
selle herself  as  a  little  child  in  a  white  furry  coat.  Et  la 
Maman  de  Mademoiselle  fut  d'une  beaute  eblouissante. 
Might  I  ask  how  Madame  finds  herself?  " 

Pam  flushed  with  pleasure.  "I'll  have  this,  please.  And 
you  remember  my  Mother,  Madame  Charrette?  She  is 
very  well.  They  are  living  in  Japan  now." 

Madame  Charrette,  who  had  a  heavy  moustache  but  a 
romantic  heart,  sighed  deeply.  "En  voila  un  reman,"  she 


240  PAM   DECIDES 

replied,  making  up  her  parcel  neatly.  "  A  real  passion  ti 
the  most  great." 

Pam  nodded  and  left  the  shop.  The  unconventionality  of 
Madame  Charrette's  remarks  did  not  strike  her,  for  she  felt 
somehow  less  lonely,  knowing  that  this  old  woman  remem- 
bered and  admired  her  father  and  mother. 

At  the  library  she  changed  her  last  book  for  "  Henry  Rye- 
croft,"  and  then  crossing  the  street,  climbed  up  three  pairs  of 
stairs  and  tried  on  the  cheap  little  frocks  to  which  her  adop- 
tion of  the  Wantage  family  had  reduced  her. 

When  she  came  out  again  the  scant  rain  had  gathered 
strength  and  poured  down  in  a  heavy  shower.  Pam  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  into  it  with  some  disgust,  and  then,  having 
a  letter  to  post,  slipped  along  under  the  dripping  awnings 
to  the  post-office. 

As  she  dropped  her  letter  to  the  Duchess  into  the  box,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  man  bending  over  one  of  the  high  desks 
dedicated  to  the  use  of  the  writers  of  telegrams.  He  wore  a 
long,  dark  rain-coat  and  a  soft  felt  hat,  but  in  spite  of  these 
more  or  less  disguising  properties  she  knew  him  at  once.  It 
was  Lensky. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  staring  at  his  unconscious  back, 
and  then,  her  face  flushing  with  pleasure,  started  across  the 
floor  towards  him.  She  had  nearly  reached  him  when  a  lady 
at  the  next  desk  turned  and  said  to  him,  "Is  it  in  Surrey, 
Mr.  de  Lensky?" 

"  No, — Kent,"  he  answered,  going  on  with  his  writing, 
*nd  Pam,  turning,  hurried  from  the  place  without  addressing 
Mm. 


PAM   DECIDES  24* 

The  tall  girl  in  the  beautifully  cut  coat  and  skirt  was,  she 
knew,  Lady  Freddy  Fane.  And  he  knew  her,  Pam's,  address, 
and  if  he  cared  to  break  his  long  silence,  could  do  so. 

Through  the  rain  she  flew  to  the  place  where  a  small  and 
not  over-clean  yellow  omnibus  stood  waiting  for  the  moment 
when  it  should  start  up  Pam's  hill  towards  the  distant  village 
whither  almost  all  its  passengers  were  bound. 

Taking  her  seat,  she  reviewed  the  little  scene  she  had  just 
witnessed,  Lensky's  wet  back  bent  over  his  telegram,  the 
dark  profile  of  the  handsome  girl  beside  him,  and,  in  the 
background,  hesitating,  ridiculous,  more  than  a  little  angry 
and  hurt,  Pam  Yeoland,  laden  with  bundles,  staring  at  them. 

Gradually  the  'bus  filled  with  chattering  peasant  women 
whose  wet  clothes  smelt  of  dye,  and  with  brown-faced  men 
smoking  atrocious  cigars  and  discussing  their  affairs  loudly 
with  their  neighbours.  The  door  was  closed  and  the  vehicle 
began  its  lumbering  progress. 

"  He  said  we  were  to  be  friends,  and  I  ought  to  have 
trusted  him  and  spoken.  Oh,  how  I  should  have  loved 

hearing  him  speak, '  You,  Miss  Yeoland ! '  he  would 

have  said,  and  he  would  have  smiled.  But  he  knows  my 
address,  and  if  he  wants  to  see  me  he  can  easily  do  so.  It  is 
not  my  place  to  make  advances.  Oh,  how  that  man  smells 
of  garlic ! " 

Half  way  up  the  hill  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
easily  in  such  a  conveyance,  catch  the  germs  of  measles  or 
scarlet-fever,  and  carry  them  home  to  the  baby,  so,  suddenly 
terror-stricken,  she  jumped  out  into  the  rain  and  went  her 
way  on  foot. 


242  PAM    DECIDES 

Lensky  might  have  written  to  her,  at  least  once,  in  all 
that  time.  His  friendship  must  be  very  unlike  her  idea  of 
that  sentiment,  or  he  would  have  done  so.  No  doubt  he 
was  glad  she  had  broken  the  engagement,  particularly  now 
he  knew  this  handsome  Lady  Freddy. 

Very  wet,  and  thoroughly  cross,  though  half-laughing  at 
her  own  unreasonableness,  Pam  reached  the  Villa.  An  hour 
later,  as,  dry  and  happy,  the  baby  in  her  lap,  she  sat  in  her 
shabby  drawing-room,  Pilgrim  came  in.  "  A  telegram,  Miss 
Pam." 

Pam  burst  out  laughing.  "  Pilly,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  am 
the  silliest  goose  in  the  world !  " 

Then  she  opened  the  wire  and  read: 

"  Am  at  Hotel  Victoria  with  friends.  May  I  come  to 
see  you?" 

"  J.  DE  LENSKY/' 


CHAPTER    IV 

WHEN  de  Lensky  arrived,  the  following  afternoon,  he 
found  a  Pam  in  the  best  of  spirits,  attired,  it  is  true,  in  a 
sober  grey  muslin  frock,  but  with  a  yellow  rose  in  the  lace 
at  her  throat  and  a  flexible  silver  belt  round  her  waist.  A 
Pam,  in  short,  in  both  mental  and  physical  gala  attire. 

She  stood,  for  she  had  heard  the  coming  of  his  cab,  in  the 
open  door,  her  slight  figure  outlined  against  the  cool  dusk  of 
the  hall,  the  afternoon  sun  just  touching  her  glossy  plaits. 

And  when  she  saw  him,  a  most  immaculate  and  prosperous- 
looking  Lamartine  in  grey  clothes  and  one  of  the  finest 
Panamas  ever  woven,  her  joy  overflowed,  and  forgetting  the 
short  interlude  of  a  different  relationship  that  had  inter- 
rupted their  friendship,  gave  him  both  her  hands  and  cried, 
her  face  quite  rosy  with  pleasure,  "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you!" 

And  he,  as  the  cabman  drove  off  to  the  shade  in  the  lee 
of  the  house,  smiled  at  her  as,  she  thought,  only  he  could 
smile  and  shook  her  hands  warmly,  not  a  shadow  of  arriere- 
pensee  in  his  face  or  his  manner.  "  And  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you.  And  you  look  so  well !  " 

"  I  am  well.  Come  in  out  of  the  heat.  The  fatted  calf 
is  being  prepared  in  the  background,  but  no  one  ever  heard  of 
the  prodigal  himself  ever  being  roasted,  and  the  sun  is  awful 
to-day!" 

She  led  him  across  the  glossy  brick  floor  into  the  high- 

243 


244  PAM    DECIDES 

ceiled,  scantily-furnished  cFrawing-room.  The  blinds  were 
all  closed  and  the  room  filled  with  a  luminous  green  dusk 
most  refreshing  after  a  long  drive  in  an  open  cab.  "  Sit  down, 
dear  person,  and  be  comfy.  I  hope  the  flowers  don't  smell 
too  strong.  I  love  them  so,  myself, " 

The  room  was  full  of  bowls  and  vases  and  even  earthen- 
ware pans  of  roses  and  heliotrope. 

"  They  are  delicious, — but  why  do  you  call  me  a  Prodi- 
gal?" Lensky  drew  his  chair  nearer  hers  and  polished  his 
glass  vigorously  on  a  blue  pocket-handkerchief  which,  she 
observed,  exactly  matched  his  striped  shirt. 

She  laughed.  Some  slight  misgivings  that  she  had  felt 
before  his  arrival  had  now  quite  gone,  definitely  disposed  of 
by  the  happy  serenity  of  his  face. 

"  Because  you  prodigalled,  didn't  you  ?  You  never  wrote 
me  a  word, — me,  your  friend !  "  It  was  so  delicious  to  know 
that  she  need  not  choose  nor  measure  her  words.  This  dear, 
exquisite  Lamartine  wore  no  bleeding  heart  under  his  smart 
waistcoat  and  she  could  be  as  fond  of  him,  in  her  own  way, 
as  she  liked. 

"  But  of  course  I  didn't.  If  you  had  wanted  me  you  would 
have  let  me  know.  Would  you  not  ?  " 

It  was  amazing  how  perfectly  he  fitted  his  present  sur- 
roundings. At  home  in  Huntley  Street,  at  home  in  Evelyn's 
beautiful  drawing-room,  as  much  at  home  in  Little  Cowley 
Street  as  if  he  had  been  born  there,  here  he  was  looking,  in 
the  shabby  brick-floored  Villa,  as  if  he  had  never  been  out 
of  it  in  his  life.  Pam  wanted  to  tell  him  all  this,  but  there 
were  so  many  things  she  wanted  to  tell  him! 


PAM    DECIDES  245 

"  I  almost  wrote  to  you  several  times,"  she  said,  instead, 
"  but — I  didn't  quite  dare " 

"  Why  ?  "  He  watched  her  in  the  most  satisfied  way  as 
he  put  his  question,  his  glossy  head  bent  as  she  had  always 
pictured  it  in  her  thoughts  of  him. 

"  Well, — I  don't  know.  Or  rather "  For  once  it 

seemed  she  was  a  little  embarrassed,  remembering  their  last 
meeting. 

Then  he  said,  quite  simply,  "  You  were  afraid  of  hurting 
me.  You  need  not  have  been  afraid  of  that." 

"  I  know  it  now.  And  it  was  idiotic  of  me,  but " 

she  could,  however,  hardly  add  that  most  men  might,  in  the 
circumstances,  have  been  hurt  by  a  merely  friendly  letter 
from  her,  so  she  got  up  and  rang  the  bell. 

Lensky  rose  as  she  did,  and  as  she  sat  down,  resumed  his 
seat.  That  he  understood  her  thought  she  instinctively  knew, 
and  a  glow  of  happiness  in  her  possession  of  such  an  incom- 
parable friend  came  to  her  face. 

She  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  so  overjoyed  in  knowing  that 
he  was  content  with  the  love  that  she  could,  and  did,  give 
him,  that  she  would  have  liked  to  shake  his  hand  again,  or 
pat  his  shoulder,  to  make  him  comprehend  her  happiness. 
He  met  her  smile  with  one  that  was  eloquent  of  all  the 
sympathetic  understanding  in  the  world,  and  then  Pilgrim 
came  in  and  was  told  to  bring  tea. 

"  Well, — whichever  of  us  was  in  fault,  makes  no  differ- 
ence. It  stall  never  happen  again,  shall  it?  And  now," 
she  went  on,  "  tell  me  what  brought  you  here." 

"  Two  things.    The  wish  to  see  you,  sail  the  wish  to  be 


246  PAM    DECIDES 

with  some  friends, — the  Penges.  They  came  last  week,  and 
I  joined  them  the  day  before  yesterday.  They  are  coming 
to  call  on  you,  if  you'll  allow  them  to." 

"  I  shall  love  to  know  them.  Lady  Freddy  Fane  is  with 
them,  isn't  she?  I  saw  her  yesterday." 

"  Yes.  It  is  for  her  that  I  came.  She  is  most  beautiful, 
and  a  delightful  woman;  clever  and  kind  as  well  as  so 
handsome." 

Pilgrim  brought  in  tea  and  Pam  lighted  the  lamp. 

"  How  nice !    How  long  are  you  to  be  here  ?  " 

"  A  week — but  we  go  to  Monte  Carlo  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. Mrs.  Penge  wants  to  know  if  you  would  care  to 
go  with  us?  We  shall  stop  the  night,  and  have  some  music, 
besides  gambling  a  little." 

"Oh, — you  still  gamble?"  The  words  burst  from  her 
involuntarily,  and  she  paused,  horror-stricken. 

He  looked  at  her  gravely.    "  Yes.    Why  not  ?  " 

Then,  before  she  had  time  to  answer,  he  went  on  as  she 
clashed  a  cup  down  on  the  tray,  "  There  is  a  new  opera  being 
sung, — and  some  of  the  Paris  opera  people  are  singing,  I 
hear,  remarkably  well.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

Pam  shook  her  head.    "  I  can't." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  I  can't  leave  the  baby." 

"  The "  For  the  first  time  she  saw  Lensky  look  really 

amazed,  and  she  burst  out  laughing.  "  Yes.  I  have  adopted 
the  child  of  a — a  friend  of  mine  who  has  just  died.  She  is 
only  three  weeks  old,  and  I  should  be  afraid  to  leave  her." 
She  gave  him  a  cup  of  tea  and  he  sat  stirring  it  for  some  time 


PAM    DECIDES  247 

without  speaking.  At  last  he  said  slowly,  "  I  am  very  glad 
for  you — about  the  child.  When  will  you  return  to 
London?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Please — let's  rrot  talk  about  that.  Tell 
me  about  the  winter  and  what  you  have  been  doing.  How 
is  Evelyn  Chesney  ?  " 

"  Very  well  now,  I  believe.  I  have  not  seen  her  for  a 
long  time.  The  Duchess  is  magnificent.  Lady  Alys  is 
obliged  to  get  rid  of  poor  Bill." 

"Poor  Bill?" 

"  Yes.  They  are  both  of  them  to  be  pitied.  He  hasn't 
been  sober  for  six  months,  I  should  say,  which  is  not  pleasant 
for  her." 

"No.    Well, — my  delectable  cousin  Ratty?" 

"  Maxse  is  the  most  domestic  of — boys.  He  will  never 
grow  to  be  a  man.  He  drives  with  his  wife  every  afternoon. 
Can  more  be  said?  By  the  way,  I  met  Miss  Greene-with- 
an-E  the  other  night, — at  the  Coliseum.  She  was — vastly 
cordial,  and  enquired  most  tenderly  for  you.  When  I  told 
her  I  had  not  seen  you  since  December,  nor  heard  from  you, 
she  thought  I  lied.  She  was  with  a  gentleman  in  mourning, — 
for  my  friend  Mrs.  Single  is  dead,  and  I  think  Miss  Greene 
aspires  to  take  her  place." 

For  an  hour  they  talked,  and  then,  at  Lensky's  request, 
Pam  fetched  the  baby.  It  was  cooler  now,  and  Pilgrim  had 
opened  one  of  the  windows,  through  which  one  had  a  beauti- 
ful view  of  the  sea.  Lensky  walked  about  the  long  room  a* 
he  waited,  and  then,  when  she  came  back,  the  baby  in  her 
arms,  he  stood  still,  watching  her  approach.  "  She  has  just 


248  PAM    DECIDES 

waked  up,  so  we  may  reasonably  hope  she  will  not  bellow," 
the  girl  explained,  smiling  at  the  child.  She  did  not  look  up, 
or  she  would  have  seen  Lensky's  colour  change  to  a  soft  pink 
as  he  watched  her,  and  his  eyes  look  as  they  did  when  he 
heard  music. 

"  Is  she — big  for  her  age?  "  he  asked,  gravely. 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea !  "  They  both  laughed  and 
he  rattled  his  keys  at  the  baby,  which  stared  disdainfully  at 
him. 

"What  is  her  name?"  he  inquired,  as  Pam  sat  down  by 
the  window. 

"  Pamela.  I  am  her  godmother,  her  poor  little  mother 
wanted  to  have  it  so.  So  now  I  am  Old  Pam,  and  she  Pam 
Junior." 

"  I  think  she  is  going  to  have  red  hair."  Gingerly  he 
passed  his  forefinger  over  the  scant  fluff  on  the  child's  head, 
"And  I  don't  like  her  nose." 

"  You  are  extremely  rude,  but  we  don't  care  a  bit.  I 
suppose  you  think  your  own  nose  was — beautiful — when  you 
were  three  weeks  old  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "  No.  The  history  of  my  nose  is  a  family 
joke.  Until  I  was  ten  or  eleven  it  remained  the  most  plebeian 
of  buttons,  round  and  flat,  to  my  mother's  despair.  Then 
one  day  it  began  to  grow,  and  it  grew  and  grew  until  it 
nearly  hid  me,  and  my  mother,  I  believe,  used  to  burn  can- 
dles to  different  saints  to  make  it  stop.  By  the  way,"  he 
•went  on,  his  voice  changing,  "  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from 
•my  mother.  I — she  insists  on  my  giving  it  to  you, — so  I 
must." 


PAM    DECIDES  249 

"  All  right.  She  must  have  been — rather  relieved,  I  should 
think." 

He  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her, 
and  as  she  read  it  she  flushed  a  deep,  uncomfortable  red. 
The  letter  was  short  but  indignant,  but  what  caused  the 
girl's  blush  was  not  the  anger  of  this  unknown  old  woman, 
but  the  realisation  it  brought  home  to  her  that  de  Lensky 
had  cared  far  more  than  she  had  ever  guessed. 

"  You  must  not  be  annoyed,"  he  said,  as  she  laid  the  letter 
on  the  table,  "  she  adores  me,  you  know,  and — the  old  story 
of  the  tigress  and  her  cub." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  tigress,"  answered  Pam,  "  but — I  am 
sorry  that — the  cub  was — upset." 

"  She  exaggerates  that,"  he  returned,  calmly.  "  I  wrote 
her  only  the  bare  facts,  so  that  part  is  all  pure  assumption, 
but — well,  you  see,  I  talked  to  her  about  you  when  I  was 
at  home." 

"  Oh ! "  Pam  looked  at  him,  as  she  shifted  the  baby  to 
another  position.  "  I  never  thought  to  tell  you,  that  evening,, 
that  I  was  sorry  to — to  hurt  you, — I  was  so  miserable  myseli 
and  so  selfish — and  you  were  so  quiet,  I  didn't  think  you 
cared  much.  If  you  did,  I  am  really  awfully  sorry." 

He  smiled,  apparently  a  little  amused  by  her  choice  of 
words.  "  Don't  be  awfully  sorry,  dear  lady !  I  assure  you 
that  even  then  I  was  much  more  distressed  for  you  than  for 
myself.  I  have  my  own  theory  of  life,  you  know,  and 
regretting  the  inevitable  doesn't  happen  to  be  part  of  it." 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  know, — and  of  course 
the  minute  I  saw  you  to-day  I  knew  it  was  all  right.  But — 


250  PAM    DECIDES 

I  was  very  selfish  not  to  think  then, — last  winter, — of  you. 
However,  Tutto  va  bene  chi  si  finis  ce  bene, — isn't  it,  Miss 
Wantage?" 

But  at  this  point  Miss  Wantage,  disregarding  the  presence 
of  a  stranger,  began  to  burble  and  then  to  roar,  and  had  tc  be 
removed. 


CHAPTER  V 

t(L,E  jeu  est  fait, — rien  ne  va  pl-u-u-s!  " 

The  croupiers  drawled  their  formulas,  ancient  hags 
clawed  in  their  or  other  people's  winnings,  beautiful  young 
women  invited  strange  men,  in  sirenic  tones,  to  lend  them  a 
louis  d'or,  respectable  matrons  looked  disdainfully  down  their 
noses  at  the  shocking  scene  to  see  which  they  had  come  hun- 
dreds of  miles.  Scraps  of  all  civilised  tongues  filled  the  air, 
oaths,  laughs,  groans.  And  the  air  itself,  thick  with  a  thou- 
sand scents  from  Peau  d'Espange  beloved  of  unmention- 
able Parisian  ladies  up  to  the  most  delicate  essence  of  Houbi- 
gant  or  Guerlain  was  unbearably  hot,  unbearably  sweet,  and 
curiously  exciting. 

Pam  and  Mr.  Penge,  inventor  of  the  celebrated  Steel 
Pills,  a  thin,  rather  aristocratic-looking  old  man  with  dyed 
eyebrows  and  snowy  hair,  had  wandered  away  from  the 
table  where  Lensky  and  Lady  Freddy  Fane  had  paused,  and 
gone  into  a  Rouge-et-Noir  room. 

They  had  come,  in  spite  of  the  baby,  the  day  before,  and 
were  to  remain  until  the  next  morning,  and  Pam  was  enjoy- 
ing herself  in  a  way  that  surprised  her. 

Papa  Penge  was  a  curiously  pompous,  yet  intelligent  old 
man,  Mamma  Penge  less  intelligent  as  she  was  less  pompous, 
but  the  kind  of  plump  old  lady  whose  good-nature  acts  as  a 
buffer  for  her  family  against  all  outside  slings  and  arrows, 
and  uncomfortable  thoughts  died  in  her  cosy  presence  in  a 

251 


252  PAM    DECIDES 

quite  extraordinary  way.  Whereas  the  two  daughters,  Miss 
Penge,  or  Buzzy,  as  she  was  called,  and  the  lovely  Lady 
Freddy  were  both  extremely  nice  women  who,  taking  a 
lively  fancy  to  the  lonely  girl,  made  her  feel  almost  at  once 
as  though  she  had  known  them  for  years. 

It  was,  too,  a  delight  to  Pam  to  see  that  while  de  Lensky 
hovered  in  tranquil  adoration  about  Lady  Freddy,  he  still 
turned  at  certain  moments  always  to  her, — to  Pam. 

"  If  only  they  would  marry,  and  then  both  take  me  for 
their  best  friend,"  she  thought. 

Standing  in  the  crowd,  studying  the  faces  opposite  her,  the 
idea  came  back  to  her.  Yes,  if  she  could  keep  Lensky  always 
for  her  friend,  and  gain  for  a  new  one  this  sincere,  intelligent 
sympathetic  Dorothy  Fane,  how  happy  she  should  be. 

Presently  the  two  people  of  whom  she  was  thinking  came 
to  the  same  table  and  sat  opposite  her.  Lady  Freddy  wore 
black,  and  round  her  throat  gleamed  a  single  string  of  pearls. 
She  was  really  like  Pam  in  a  curious  elusive  way.  It  was 
possibly  more  an  expression  than  anything  else,  but  it  was 
undeniable,  and  Pam  smiled  as  she  studied  it.  Lensky,  after 
standing  for  a  few  minutes  looking  on  at  the  game,  reached 
over  and  placed  some  gold-pieces  on  the  table.  He  won, 
pushed  back  the  original  sum  with  his  winnings,  and  won 
again. 

For  five  minutes  this  went  on,  until  the  attention  of  the 
motley  bystanders  was  fixed  on  him.  Lady  Freddy  said 
something  to  him,  but  he  did  not  hear,  aniTlhen,  once  more 
risking  the  whole  of  the  considerable  sum  of  money,  he  won 
again. 


PAM    DECIDES  253 

A  woman  in  front  of  him  rose  and  with  a  glance  of  super- 
stitious awe  offered  him  her  seat.  He  turned,  stared  absently 
at  her  and  apparently  remembering  that  he  was  not  alone, 
refused  her  offer  with  a  courteous  bow.  A  moment  later 
Lady  Freddy  and  he  had  joined  Pam  and  Mr.  Penge. 

Pam  looked  curiously  at  Lensky.  His  face  wore  an  ex- 
pression she  had  never  seen  on  it ;  one  of  concentrated  excite- 
ment strongly  held  in  check,  and  he  was  extremely  pale.  And 
although  the  girl  had  never  before  seen  that  look  in  any  face 
whose  changes  were  familiar  to  her,  she  at  once  recognised  it, 
and  knew  that  his  passion  for  play  was  roused. 

As  she  was  intently  studying  him  he  looked  up  and  met 
her  gaze.  He  smiled.  "  Will  you  come  for  a  turn  round 
the  rooms  with  me,  Miss  Yeoland?  "  he  asked,  and  as  soon 
as  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  others,  he  added,  "Yes, 
you  were  right." 

"Right?" 

"  In  thinking  that  I  have  a  fit  of  the  gambling  fever 
to-night." 

"  But — are  you  going  to  do  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  very  gravely,  "  I  think  so, — when 
you  all  have  gone  to  the  hotel.  I  should  be  lucky  to-night." 

"  And  then  you'd  try  again  to-morrow, — and  be  unlucky." 

"  Very  likely."  He  looked  at  her  a  little  anxiously,  and 
with  a  smile  she  said,  as  they  drew  near  to  a  Roulette  table, 
"  You  needn't  be  afraid.  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  not  to !  " 

He  laughed,  showing  his  teeth,  as  he  so  rarely  did.  "  I 
am  glad !  But  how  did  you  know  I  thought  you  were  ?  " 

"  I — just  knew.    And  I  may  as  well  warn  you  that  I  think 


254  PAM   DECIDES 

Lady  Freddy  is  going  to  be  less  discreet  than  I,  so  if  you 
want  to  spend  a  merry  evening  losing  money,  you  had  better 
avoid  her!  " 

"  I  should  refuse  if  she  asked  me.  I  say, — look  at  that 
chap  with  the  hair  like  a  shoe-brush,  he's  winning  a  pot  of 
money " 

Pam  did  not  ask  what  Lensky  would  have  done  if  she  had 
begged  him  not  to  gamble  that  night,  and  stood  silent  for  a 
long  time,  while  he  watched  the  man  with  the  shoe- 
brush  hair  on  whose  shoulder  the  bird  of  luck  had  evidently 
perched. 

To  the  girl's  left  an  Englishman  stood  talking  to  a  very 
pretty  Frenchwoman  obviously  not  his  wife. 

"Mais  non"  he  was  saying,  looking  down  at  her,  "II 
nest  pas  temps." 

"  But  just  for  a  moment,"  she  pleaded,  shaking  a  netted 
gold  bag  full  of  loose  coin,  "  /'  suls  en  veins  ce  soir,  j'l'sais. 
Allans,  petit  cheri,  fats  moi  place/  " 

But  the  big  man  refused  to  let  her  try  the  luck  she  felt  to 
be  hers,  and  she  turned  away  sulkily.  Pam  watched  them, 
much  amused.  The  man  was  evidently  a  pillar  of  society 
on  a  holiday ;  she  could  mentally  picture  him  at  home  in  the 
country,  chained  to  the  domestic  hearth,  shooting  over  his 
turnips,  ornamenting  the  little  church  with  his  exemplary 
presence  on  Sunday  mornings.  His  wife  was  probably  about 
forty-five,  possessed  of  a  weather-beaten  complexion  and  all 
the  virtues.  Yet  here  he  was  with  a  scrap  of  humanity  from 
Montmartre  or  Batignolles,  aged  about  twenty-three,  chiefly 
noticeable  for  the  candour  of  her  brow  and  the  freedom  of 


PAM    DECIDES  255 

her  tongue,  and  who  undoubtedly  could,  if  she  thought  it 
desirable,  kick  off  his  hat  on  a  moment's  notice. 

Pam  stood  quite  still,  enjoying  the  conversation  carried  on 
by  these  two  people,  and  then,  suddenly,  her  smile  faded  and 
a  look  very  much  like  terror  darkened  her  eyes.  For  the  big 
man,  in  the  middle  of  a  laborious  explanation  to  his  com- 
panion in  what  he  considered  French,  broke  off  and  mut- 
tered to  himself  under  his  breath,  but  so  that  Pam  heard  the 
words  as  clearly  as  if  they  had  been  shouted,  "  Good  Lord, 
Jim  Peele!" 

Taking  Mademoiselle  Fernande  by  an  elbow,  he  wheeled 
round  and  made  for  the  lobby  door.  Pam  stood  still  for  a 
second,  and  then  caught  de  Lensky's  arm. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  and  without  a  word  of  explanation  led 
him  out  of  the  Casino,  following  closely  on  the  heels  of  the 
Englishman  and  his  companion. 

Lensky,  when  they  stood  in  the  cool  night  air  on  the  steps, 
turned  to  her.  "  You  were  faint  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  dropped  his  arm.  "  No, — but — someone  is  there  whom 
I  don't  want  to  see." 

He  leaned  towards  her  and  studied  her  face  for  a  moment 
in  silence  and  then,  taking  her  hand  and  laying  it  on  his  arm, 
led  the  way  to  the  garden,  where  he  made  her  sit  down  on  a 
bench,  and  taking  out  his  cigarette-case  asked  her  if  he  might 
smoke. 

She  nodded,  for  she  could  not  speak.  Peele,  judging  by 
the  big  Englishman's  proceedings,  must  have  been  just  oppo- 
site them  at  the  table;  if  she  had  raised  her  eyes  she  would 
have  seen  him;  it  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  he  had  not 


256  PAM   DECIDES 

seen  her.  What  was  he  doing  here?  Was  he  going  to  try 
to  gain  admittance  to  the  Villa  ?  Had  her  silence  so  angered 
him  that  he  had  decided  to  take  matters  into  his  own  hands 
and  force  things  to  go  his  way?  These  and  hundreds  of 
other  thoughts  whirled  through  the  girl's  mind  as  she  sat 
there  under  the  brilliant  stars. 

Had  she  been  foolish  not  to  answer  his  letters? 

He  was  not  the  man  to  accept  the  purely  passive  role  she 
in  her  arrogance  of  strength  had  assigned  to  him.  Tired  of 
waiting,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  act.  She  turned  and 
looked  at  Lensky's  placid  profile  as  he  sat  smoking,  his  near- 
sighted gaze  fixed  on  the  sea. 

"Mr.  de  Lensky!"  At  the  desperation  in  her  voice  he 
started. 

"Yes?" 

"  It  is — he — of  whom  I  told  you,  who  is  in  there.  I  heard 
someone  say  so.  And — I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  You  don't  want  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  No !  And  yet "  He  could  see  her  painful  blush, 

and  looked  away  in  pity.  "  When  I  think  that  he  is  in 
there, — oh,  I  must  go  home.  I  must  go  at  once.  If  he 
should  come  out  here " 

"  He  will  not  come  here ;  and  if  he  did " 

She  burst  into  a  harsh  laugh.  "  Oh,  but  you  don't  under- 
stand! If  he  came,  if  I  saw  him,  I — I  should  do  anything 
he  said,  to-night.  I — I  want  him  so!" 

Lensky  did  not  move.  "  You  would  do — exactly  what 
you  think — wisest,"  he  returned,  hesitating  a  little  on  the 
just  word,  and  evidently  using  it  deliberately,  instead  of 


PAM    DECIDES  257 

"  right."  "  You  are  nervous,  just  now,  but — you  are  strong, 
and  you  would  certainly  not — make  a  fool  of  yourself." 

The  roughness  of  his  phrase  acted  like  a  tonic  on  her. 

"No, — of  course  I  shouldn't,"  she  answered,  humbly; 
• "  but — it  would  make  things  almost  unbearable.  Seeing  him, 
I  mean.  I — I  can't  tell  you  the  effect  his  face  has  on  me. 
And  I  am  afraid  to  see  him.  I  am  so  sorry  to — to  be  such  a 
bore,  but — will  you  take  me  to  the  station?  I  can  catch  the 
10.15  train.  I — I  cant  stay  on  here." 

To  her  infinite  relief  he  rose  at  once,  throwing  away  his 
cigarette.  "  Of  course  you  can't.  Yes, — you  can  easily 
make  that  train,  and  I'll  explain  to  Mrs.  Penge.  If  we  hurry 
we  can  go  to  the  hotel  for  your  luggage." 

But  this  Pam  would  not  do.  She  was  extremely  nervous 
and  absolutely  refused  to  go  to  the  hotel,  or  to  leave  the 
garden. 

"  Lady  Freddy's  maid  will  pack  my  things  to-morrow.  I 
shall  be  at  home  by  midnight.  What — what  will  you  tell 
Mrs.  Penge?" 

Lensky  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  I  shall  just  say  that  you 
found  it  necessary  to  go  home  suddenly,"  he  returned.  "  And 
when  you  see  them  on  Friday  you  can  do  as  you  like." 

A  few  minutes  later  Pam  was  in  the  train,  and  Lensky 
stood  bareheaded  before  her.  "  I  am  wiring  Pilgrim  to  meet 
you,"  he  said,  "  and  on  Thursday  I  shall  come  to  see  you. 
I  think  you  had  perhaps  better  tell  me  about  it."  Pam  took 
his  hand  in  both  hers.  "Yes, — I  will.  And  you  will  tell 
me  what  to  do.  And — thank  you." 

"  Good-bye,  then,  until  Thursday." 


258  PAM   DECIDES 

As  the  train  moved  away,  he  stood  looking  aftei  her,  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  the  strong  light  pouring  down  on  him 
showing  him  distinctly,  even  to  the  small  pearls  in  his  shirt, 
and  the  gardenia  in  his  coat ;  correct,  impassive,  almost  statu- 
esque, on  a  small  scale. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"I  AM  awfully  ashamed  to  have  been  so — idiotic,  I  can't 
imagine  what  made  me !  " 

Lensky  smiled.  "  Love  often  makes  people  afraid,"  he 
returned,  in  a  serious  voice. 

They  sat  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Villa  beside  a  shabby 
little  inlaid  table  on  which  stood,  still  locked,  the  despatch- 
box  containing  Peele's  letters  to  Pam.  It  was  a  wet  day,  and 
in  the  silence  ensuing  on  his  unusually  intimate  speech,  the 
sound  of  the  rain  beating  on  the  windows  seemed  to  grow 
louder,  and  then  diminish,  like  a  pulsing  thing. 

"  It  is, — that — I  suppose,"  the  girl  said,  slowly,  clasping 
her  hands ;  "  but — it  isn't  a  gov d — love.  I  can't  express  it, 
but  I  know,  myself.  It  is  like — being  possessed  of  a  devil." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean "  She  was  always  inarticulate  under  stress 

of  strong  emotion,  and  spoke  in  a  painfully  fragmentary  way 
as  he  sat  looking  out  into  the  rain, — "  I  mean  that  a  real, 
whole  love  is  a  good  thing,  and  that  this — isn't." 

"  Because  he  is  married  ?  " 

Her  face  trembled  and  then  broke  into  a  smile  as  she 
looked  round  the  room  in  which  her  father  and  mother  had 
so  often  sat,  almost  as  if  apologising  to  it  for  his  mistake. 

"  Good  Heavens,  no!  That  makes  no  difference  in  the — • 
the  quality  of  the  feeling.  I  mean — well,  my  mother  loves 
my  father  with  real  love,  and  it  is  good;  it  always  waf 

259 


260  PAM    DECIDES 

good,  even  when  it  was  wrong.  But  I — I  don't  respect — 
this  man, — or  like  him,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  the  way  he 
makes  me  feel.  But  when  he  is  near — then  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  wings  that  were — beating  the  air  with  impatience  to 
carry  me  to  him.  And  I  give  you  my  word,  when  I  shut 
my  eyes  I  can.  see  him  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  this  moment. 
And  when  I  got  his  note  this  morning,  begging  me  to  see 
him, — if  you  hadn't  been  coming  I'd  have — -bolted." 

Lensky  turned  and  looked  at  her,  for  the  first  time  for 
several  minutes.  "And  his  other  letters  are  in  that  box?" 

"  Yes.  I — I  wouldn't  read  them,  but  I  simply  could  not 
make  up  my  mind  to  burn  them.  Are  you,"  she  went  on, 
unlocking  the  box  and  taking  out  the  letters,  "quite  sure 
that  I  ought  to  read  them  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  can't  know  how  to  act 
until  you  know  what  his  intentions  are, — and  have  been. 
And,  besides,  it  is  so  much  simpler  to  face  matters." 

She  nodded.  His  cool  common-sense  was  already  doing 
her  good.  "  Very  well.  I — I  will  read  them  and  tell  you 
what  he  says." 

Lensky  took  his  glass  from  his  eye,  and  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  tc  all  intents  and  purposes  as  unable  to  see  her  face 
as  if  she  had  been  in  the  next  room,  waited. 

As  she  read  the  first  letter  she  paled,  and  her  hand  shook. 
It  was  only  a  note,  and  she  read  it  twice  and  then  paused 
before  she  spoke. 

"  It  is  a  very  nice  note,"  she  faltered.  "  He — begs  my 
pardon  for — for  coming  to  my  house — and — he  wants  me  to 
forget  it,  and — be  friends." 


PAM    DECIDES  261 

"  Not  an  original  idea.    And — the  next  ?  '' 

But  the  second  letter,  postmarked  March  5th,  was  very 
long,  and  ten  minutes  had  passed  before  Pam  spoke.  The 
rain  beat  on  the  windows,  a  door  slammed  somewhere  in  the 
distance,  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  four.  The 
room,  to  Lensky,  was  as  blurred  and  vague  as  some  room  in 
a  dream,  and  Fam,  as,  involuntarily  he  at  length  turned  to 
her,  a  mere  mass  of  light  blue  or  grey  with  a  dark  head  and 
a  white,  featureless  face. 

"  I — can't  read  you  this.     It — is  only  for  me." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  after  which  he  said,  briskly,  "  Of 
course;  but — the  general  purport?  What  did  he  mean  to  do 
when  he  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  He — I  had  not  written,  and  he  was " 

"Desperate?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  see.  He  insisted  on  seeing  you ;  he  didn't  care — a 
tinker's  curse, — what  happened,  but  see  you  he  must.  Is 
that  right  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  was — unhappy,  too."  In  spite  of  herself  there 
was  a  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice,  and  fitting  his  glass  to 
his  eye  with  great  celerity,  Lensky  looked  at  her,  a  frown 
breaking  the  smooth  line  of  his  almost  white  eyebrows. 
"Unhappy?  Of  course  he  was,  poor  brute.  But — don't 
let  that  bias  you.  And  remember,  it  was  written  nearly 
three  months  ago." 

Pam  did  not  answer,  but  in  silence  tore  open  the  third 
letter.  It  was  short. 

"  This  was  written  the  third  of  April,  and — he  was  very 


262  PAM    DECIDES 

angry.  He  says  '  I  shall  never  again  write  to  you,  so  you 
need  not  veil  your  proceedings  in  the  mystery  you  evidently 
love '  " 

"Aha!    That's  better.    Is  that  the  last?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No.  There's — the  one  I  received 
last  week " 

"  Oh.    Well,— what  does  it  say  ?  " 

Lensky's  voice  was  conspicuously  cheery  and  matter-of- 
fact,  but  as  the  girl  opened  the  last  letter  he  took  his  glass 
once  more  from  his  eye,  and  she,  noting  the  movement, 
understood  it. 

Peele  had  written  from  London, — from  the  Green  Street 
house  where  she  had  been.  He  had  just  seen  the  Duchess 
and  learned  from  her  that  Pam  was  at  the  Villa. 

"So  you  are  in  Arcadia?"  he  began,  abruptly.  "Alone 
in  Arcadia,  Do  you  not  think  that  you  have  been  rather 
unnecessarily  hard  on  me?  I  behaved  badly,  I  have  ad- 
mitted it,  and  begged  your  pardon,  but  you  are  too  clear- 
headed to  be  fed  with  sophistries,  so  I  will  not  pretend 
things  to  you.  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me,  so  why  not 
admit  it?  I  have  never  loved  another  woman,  you  have 
never  loved  another  man.  And  we  both  of  us  knew  these 
things  the  minute  I  came  into  that  dark  room  at  the  Duchess's 
that  day  in  December.  Therefore,  why  not  admit  and  face 
the  truth? 

"  Your  silence  refuses  my  offer  of  friendship,  and  I  am 
sorry,  for  I  am  no  weakling,  and  I  could  have  kept  the  pact, 
if  you  had  consented  to  make  it,  and  I  should  never  have 


PAM    DECIDES  263. 

uttered  a  word  to  remind  you  of — Arcadia.  Why  were  you 
so  unwise? 

"  Of  your  engagement  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  It 
was  a  mistake,  and  when  you  knew  that  it  was,  you  broke 
it.  Your  engagement  to  me  nothing  can  break,  not  even 
death. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  I  have  no  base  intentions,  nor  even  any 
high-flown,  romantic  ones.  I  cannot  marry  you,  and  I 
would  rather  die  than  injure  you  in  any  way.  Come  back 
and  lead  the  life  circumstances  have  planned  for  you,  and 
meet  me  when  chance  wills  it,  without  melodrama,  without 
evasion. 

"  I  give  you  my  word  never  to  force  myself  on  you,  and 
surely  you  are  now  old  enough  to  know  the  value  of  com- 
promise. I  beg  you  once  more,  forgive  the  time  when  I 
have  failed  you,  and  give  me  one  more  chance.  And  remem- 
ber '  the  night  we  stormed  Valhalla,  a  thousand  years  ago.* 

"JAMES  PEELE." 

Pam  read  to  the  end,  and  then  without  a  word  handed  the 
letter  to  Lensky. 

As  he  read  he  frowned  and  his  mouth  grew  a  little  set, 
but  he  did  not  speak.  Pam  knew  already  what  the  answer 
must  be.  She  must  refuse  to  see  Peele  under  any  and  all 
conditions,  and  if  he  could  not  be  brought  to  agree  to  her 
ultimatum  she  must  let  her  London  house  and  disappear 
somewhere  with  the  baby  and  Pilgrim.  She  was  amazed  at 
the  force  of  the  passion  the  very  sound  of  his  voice  had 
raised  in  her,  and  had,  as  she  read,  resolved  to  do  anything 


^64  PAM   DECIDES 

in  the  world  rather  than  subject  herself  to  the  supreme 
temptation  of  seeing  him. 

"  I  will  take  the  baby  and  go  to — Russia, — anywhere," 
she  was  telling  herself,  when  Lensky  broke  into  an 
exclamation. 

"  Peele !    James  Peele !    Not  the  Duchess's  son-in-law  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  flushing  scarlet. 

"  But — James  Peele, — the  new  Chancellor  of  some  Duchy 
or  other!  " 

His  face,  bent  closer  to  hers,  was  full  of  the  utmost  amaze- 
ment. "It  is  he!" 

Pam  shrugged  her  shoulders,  a  little  annoyed  by  his  sur- 
prise. 

"  It  is.  Is  it  so  incomprehensible?  I  didn't  mean  to 
tell  you,  but  I  forgot  the  signature " 

Lensky  rose  and  walked  to  the  window  and  back  before  he 
answered  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  handing  her  the  letter, 
"  but — I  never  dreamed  of  him.  He — in  the  first  place  he 
is  so  much  older  than  you.  However,  that  is  not  the  ques- 
tion. The  question  is — how  are  you  going  to  answer  this? 
It  is  a— a  clever  letter." 

"Yes.  But  it's— a  lie,"  declared  Pam,  bluntly.  "We 
neither  of  us  could  '  be  friends.'  I  shall  write  and  tell  him 
that  and — beg  him  to  stop  writing.  And  I  shall  tell  him 
that  unless  he  promises  not  to  bother  me  I  shall  leave 
London." 

Lensky  came  closer  to  her  and  studied  her  face  for  a 
moment  with  grave  concentration. 


PAM    DECIDES  265 

"Yes.  Tkat  is  right.  You  have  his  Monte  Carlo 
address?" 

"  Hotel  de  Paris." 

"  There's  one  thing  to  consider,  however.  Accidental 
meetings." 

Pam  nodded,  slowly.  "  I'll  run  that  risk  if  he  promises  to 
let  me  alone.  The  Duchess  knows  I  don't  want  to  meet 
him,  and — I  shall  go  out  very  little.  There's — the  baby, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  there's  the  baby,"  he  answered,  with  great  gentle- 
ness, "  and  I  am  very  glad  for  you.  You  are  a  very  good 
woman,  Pam." 

She  stared.  "  I !  Oh,  no,  I'm  not ;  but  I'm  glad  you 
think  I  am — Jack  dear.  It  has  helped  me,  to  talk  it  over 
with  you, — and — to  read  the  letters  with  you.  I  am  a  fearful 
coward  in  some  ways."  The  clock  struck  five  and  a  cab 
came  down  the  avenue.  It  was  Lensky's  cab,  and  she  knew 
that  he  had  an  engagement  and  must  go. 

She  took  his  hand.  "  I'll  not  keep  you,"  she  said,  as  he 
glanced  with  an  apology  at  his  watch,  "  but — I  am  grateful 
to  you.  You  don't  know  what  your  friendship  is  to  me,  nor 
how  much  you — help  rae.  I'll  write  to  him  to-night,  and 
let  you  know  what  he  answers.  Good-bye,  amico." 

He  smiled.  "  Addio — arnica  cara.  Now  if  I  were  you 
I'd  go  and  play  with  the  baby  for  awhile!  " 

And  when  he  had  gone,  his  cab  leaving  gleaming  streaks 
in  the  soaked  gravel,  she  took  his  advice. 

"  Cassandra,"  she  said,  to  the  nurse,  "  I  believe  she's  going 
to  be  white  after  all !  " 


CHAPTER   VII 

"  I  LOVE  the  way,"  remarked  Sidney  Blythe,  feeding  a  bit 
of  sugar  soaked  in  coffee  to  a  very  elongated  Scottish  terrier, 
"  the  airy  way  in  which  you  all  talk  about  Miss  Yeoland 
and  her  baby !  And  what — don't  lick  my  fingers,  you  little 
brute, — my  enquiring  mind  clamours  to  know  is,  if  the  lady 
is  Miss  Yeoland,  why  she  has  a  baby;  or,  if  she  has  a  baby, 
why  she  is  Miss  Yeoland." 

"  Shut  up,  Sid,"  laughed  Buzzy  Penge,  who  was  sitting 
on  the  grass  near  the  tea-table,  "you  are  improper." 

"  I  am  not !  I  am  the  only  truly  moral  man  in  England, 
and  I  object  to  the  constant  references  to  this  Miss  Yeoland 
and  her  baby.  I  feel  that  she  is  a  person  I  ought  not  to 
meet." 

Lady  Freddy,  who  was  trying  to  read,  looked  up  from 
her  book.  "  Idiot !  Why  don't  you  go  for  a  walk,  Sidney  ? 
Buzzy,  do  get  rid  of  him." 

But  Buzzy  shook  her  head.  "  No  use  trying  to  do  that ; 
haven't  I  been  trying  for  years?  Good  gracious,  Dorothy, 
here  comes  Pam  this  minute !  " 

Pam  advanced  rapidly  over  the  velvety  lawn,  waving  he; 
hand  as  she  came,  and  Blythe  put  his  hat  on  his  perfectly 
bald  head, — his  way  of  preparing  to  meet  strangers. 

Buzzy  Penge  kissed  Pam  affectionately,  Lady  Freddy 
smiled  at  her,  and  then  Blythe  was  presented.  "  Mr.  Blythe. 
of  whom  you  have  heard." 

266 


PAM    DECIDES  267 

Pam  shook  hands  with  him  and  sat  down,  taking  off  her 
hat  and  dropping  it  beside  her  on  the  grass. 

"  Guess  the  news,"  she  exclaimed. 

Blythe  stared  solemnly  at  her.    "  The  baby  has  a  tooth !  " 

"  How  did  you  know?  One  is  really  coming,  though  it's 
only  a  hump  as  yet !  " 

Everyone  laughed.  They  had  grown  to  be  very  good 
friends  of  Pam's,  the  Pill  people,  and  Bumblemouth  being 
only  a  half-hour's  walk  from  Hinchingly,  she  had  seen  a 
great  deal  of  them  since  her  arrival  three  months  before. 

She  knew  that  they,  too,  liked  her,  and  the  unceremonious 
intercourse  with  them  had  made  the  summer  very  pleasant 
for  her.  As  they  talked,  that  September  afternoon,  she 
watched  Blythe  with  much  interest,  and  suddenly,  catching 
her  eye,  he  asked  her,  taking  off  his  hat  and  leaning  against 
a  tree,  "  Do  you  think  she'll  take  me  in  the  end  ?  " 

"Take  you " 

"Yes.  Buzzy, — Patricia,  if  you  prefer  her  real  name. 
You  know  all  about  it,  so  you  might  as  well  tell  me  your 
opinion." 

Pam  laughed.  "  If  I  did  know  I  certainly  shouldn't  tell 
you." 

"That's  very  unkind  of  you.  I  say,  Buzzy, — do  you 
think  you  will  ?  " 

"  Seventeen,"  returned  Miss  Penge,  quietly.  "  Go  away, 
Sid,  I  can't  bear  you  another  second." 

He  rose,  laughed,  and  strolled  away  towards  the  house, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Well?"  asked  Buzzy. 


268  PAM    DECIDES 

"  I  never  saw  such  long  eyelashes  in  my  life,"  returned 
Pam,  promptly. 

"  I  told  you  so !  And  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  before  he 
went  to  South  Africa,  he  had  nice  curly  hair  and  no  more 
lashes  than  anybody  else !  " 

"Was  it  fever?" 

"  Yes.  And  he's  tried  everything  under  the  sun  to  make 
his  hair  grow,  as  I  told  you,  and  the  only  result  is  to  encour- 
age these  outrageous  lashes, — it's  too  awful !  " 

"  Has  he  tried  Chlorodyne, — no,  Capsuloids  ?  "  inquired 
Pam,  devoting  her  whole  mind  to  the  question. 

"  Everything.    And  he  used  to  be  so  good-looking!  " 

Miss  Penge's  voice  was  sincerely  mournful  as  she  gazed 
after  the  diminishing  figure  of  her  swain. 

Lady  Freddy  laid  down  her  book.  "  I  am  very  sorry  for 
Sid,"  she  observed,  rising,  "  and  I  think  you  ought  to  make  up 
your  mind,  Buzzy." 

Then  she,  too,  left  the  three  beeches  under  which  the 
tea-table  stood,  and  the  girls  were  alone. 

"  Why  don't  you  make  up  your  mind  ? "  asked  Pam, 
sensibly,  nibbling  a  lump  of  sugar. 

"  My  dear  girl,  can't  you  see?  Could  you  marry  a  man 
without  a  hair  on  his  head  ?  "  Miss  Penge  laughed  as  she 
spoke,  but  her  eyes  were  serious.  "If  I  had  accepted  him 
before  he  went  to  Africa  I  would  of  course  have  married  him 
whatever  happened,  but  as  it  happened  I  refused  him  two 
days  before  he  sailed,  and  when  I  saw  him  on  his  return — • 
wasn't  I  glad  I  had !  " 

"And  now?" 


PAM    DECIDES  269 

"And  now — he  asks  me  two  or  three  times  a  week,  and 
I  always  refuse  him.  If,"  she  added,  ruefully,  "  it  would 
only  grow  a  little !  " 

"  Can't  you  fix  your  mind  on  his  eyelashes  ?  They  really 
are  superb." 

"  No,  I  can't.  As  long  as  he  keeps  his  hat  on  I  have 
hopes. — and  then  he  takes  it  off  and  I  could  scream  with 
laughter.  Such  a  sight  I  never  saw, — exactly  like  a  huge 
billiard-ball" 

Pam  nodded.  "  Poor  you !  Dorothy  doesn't  seem  to 
mind  it." 

"  He  doesn't  want  to  marry  Dorothy,"  rejoined  Lady 
Freddy's  sister,  drily.  "But, — by  the  way,  Pam, — Jack  de 
Lensky  is  coming  down  to-morrow." 

"/she!    I  am  glad." 

"  So  am  I.  He's  a  dear.  And  I  tell  you  what  I  think.  I 
think  he  is  falling  in  love  with  her." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes.  You  weren't  here  when  he  came  in  July,  but  I 
was,  and — I'm  fairly  sure.  It  would  be  such  a  good  thing 
for  her." 

"And  for  him." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there's  no  one  quite  like  her.  I've  been  rather 
hoping  ever  since  we  were  on  the  Riviera,  but  they  are  both 
such  reserved  creatures,  I  couldn't  come  to  any  conclusion. 
Now,  however, — I  mean  in  July,  he  was  absolutely  devoted 
to  her,  and  she  was  more  like  her  old  self  than  she  has  been 
since — since  the  divorce." 

Par*  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  thoughtfully, 


PAM   DECIDES 

"  I  hope  you're  right;  it  would  be  perfect.  Only — he  has  a 
way  of  looking  frantically  devoted  to  any  woman  he  finds 
attractive.  There  was  my  cousin  Evelyn  Chesney,  for  exam- 
ple. The  Duchess  of  Wight  thought  he  was  sure  to  propose 
to  her,  and  he  didn't.  What  did  he  do — lean  over  her  and 
worshipfully  admire?  " 

"  No.  I  know  that  trick  of  his,  but  this  was  different. 
They  used  to  walk  away  from  everybody  and  sit  and  talk, 
and  forget  to  come  back,  and  they  used  to  ride  together 
every  morning, — and  you  know  how  careful  he  is,  always. 
Even  Mamma  thought  there  was  something  in  it,  and  you 
know  Mamma !  " 

"  Oh,  Buzzy,  it  would  be  glorious!  Do  you  know,  I 
thought  of  it  the  day  I  met  you,  and  hoped  it  might  happen. 
I  love  Dorothy,"  she  added,  simply,  "  and  Jack  is  the  best 
friend  I  have  in  the  world,  so  you  can  imagine  how  glad  I 
should  be.  When  is  he  coming?  " 

"  To-morrow  afternoon.  Come  and  dine  and  sleep,  and 
we'll  see  if  we  can't  do  a  little  match-making,  will  you  ?  " 

"I  will,"  answered  Pam,  rising,  "who  else  is  coming?" 

"  Nobody  who  counts.  Have  you  heard  from  the 
Incubus  ? " 

"  Yes, — but  I  won't  have  you  call  him  that.  He's  doing 
very  well,  poor  boy,  and  is  coming  down  on  Sunday  to  see 
the  baby.  He  will  be  surprised  about  the  tooth,  won't  he  ?  " 

Buzzy  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know?  Did  he  expect  it  to  remain 
toothless?" 

"Nonsense!     But  .she's  only  four  months  old,  which  is 


PAM    DECIDES  271 

awfully  young  for  a  tooth, — not  that  it  »  a  tooth  yet,  but 
it  won't  be  long." 

Miss  Penge  burst  out  laughing,  and  then  as  suddenly  was 
serious.  "  That  vacuum  system  seems  to  be  based  on  a  sound 
principle, — a  kind  of  massage,  you  know.  It  might  make 
it  grow." 

Pam  stared.  "  But  it's  growing  perfectly  all  right, 
Cassandra  says " 

Buzzy  coloured  vividly.  "  I  wasn't  thinking  about  your 
everlasting  baby;  I  was  thinking  about  Sid's  hair." 

"  Well, — I  must  be  off,  but  before  I  go  I  can  tell  you  one 
thing,  Patricia  Penge.  You're  in  love  with  that  youth,  hair 
or  no  hair." 

"I'm  not!" 

"  You  lie ;  you  are.  And  if  you  don't  soon  make  up  your 
mind  to  tell  him  so,  /  shall, — when  he  confides  in  me." 

"  Why  do  you  think  he's  going  to  confide  in  you  ?  He 
talks  as  he  did  this  afternoon  to  everybody;  it's  his  way." 

Miss  Penge  had  in  reality  no  more  teeth  than  other  people, 
but  the  width  of  her  mouth  and  her  unrestrained  smiles 
gave  her  a  delusive  air  of  possessing  at  least  a  dozen  more 
than  she  had. 

Pam  smiled  back  at  her,  an  equally  good-natured  smile, 
but  on  a  smaller  scale.  "  I  don't  mean  that.  He  is  going 
to  seriously  confide  in  me,"  she  answered  after  a  pause,  "  I 
saw  it  in  his  eye.  And  I  shall  enjoy  it,  I  always  do.  I 
think  I'll  invite  Dorothy  to  do  a  little  match-making  with 
me  for  your  benefit !  " 

"  Poor  old  Dolly, — she  is  never  particularly  inclined  for 


272  PAM   DECIDES 

that  sort  of  thing,  her  own  experience  was  not  encouraging. 
You  never  met  Freddy,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Awful,  unmitigated  rotter.  Large,  hearty-looking  man, 
full  of  the  meanest  and  smallest  vices." 

"Poor  girl!" 

"Yes,  it  was  hard  luck.  So  you  see,  joking  aside,  if  she 
could  be  persuaded  to  marry  Jack,  we  should  all  be  tre- 
mendously glad." 

At  the  lodge-gate  Miss  Penge  turned  back,  and  Pam  sped 
homewards,  her  head  full  of  heterogeneous  but  almost  equally 
interesting  ideas. 

Jack  and  Dorothy!  It  would  be  really  ideal,  she  thought, 
watching  the  quiet  sea,  and  how  glad  she  should  be  to  see 
him  the  next  evening. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HlNCHINGLY  was  a  hideous,  most  comfortable  modern 
red  brick  mansion  that  had  been  built  by  Mr.  Penge  fifteen 
years  before.  Standing  in  a  hollow  near  the  sea,  in  a  small 
but  well-wooded  park,  it  was  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in 
winter  and  the  whole  family  loved  it,  as  they  were  given  to 
love  their  own  possessions,  extravagantly. 

Even  the  horrible  black  and  white  marble  hall  was,  they 
agreed,  original  and  rather  distinguished,  and  as,  while 
admiring  its  monstrous  ugliness,  they  tacitly  covered  as  much 
of  it  as  was  possible  with  rugs  and  dull-hued  tapestries,  it 
might  have  been  worse. 

And,  though  the  drawing-room  was  upholstered — there  are 
some  rooms  to  express  the  furnishing  of  which  upholstered 
is  the  only  word — in  yellow  satin,  there  was  an  alabaster 
vase  on  the  Parian  marble  table  in  the  centre,  there  was  a 
mosaic  table,  gilt  chairs  and  oil  paintings  of  the  Alps  on  the 
walls. 

It  was  a  hideous  room,  old-fashioned  and  inartistic  and 
unbecoming  to  everyone  who  entered  it,  but  neither  of  the 
Penge  girls  had  ever  made  an  effort  to  persuade  their  mother 
to  change  it. 

To  her  it  represented  the  final  crystallisation  of  a  long- 
cherished  ideal.  All  during  her  youth  she  had  longed  for 
such  a  drawing-room,  and  when,  fifteen  years  before,  she  had 
been  able  to  compass  it,  her  joy  was  so  delightful,  her  pride 

273 


274  PAM    DECIDES 

so  innocently  obvious  that  Buzzy,  then  a  leggy,  plain  child 
of  fifteen,  had  said  to  the  twelve-year  old  Dorothy  who  pro- 
tested against  the  yellow  curtains,  "  I  say,  Dolly,  she  likes  it, 
and  it's  hers,  so  let's  just  grin  and  bear  it,  shall  we?  " 

And  therefore,  while  little  by  little  the  rest  of  the  house 
was  moulded  and  beautified  by  their  educated  tastes,  these 
two  old-fashioned  daughters  had  never  so  much  as  hinted 
to  their  mother  that  some  slight  changes  might  improve  the 
room  she  so  admired,  and  when  in  the  course  of  time  the 
curtains  and  chair-coverings  had  to  be  renewed,  Lady  Freddy 
herself  helped  the  old  lady  to  choose  new  satin  of  the  same 
flamboyant  shade  for  them,  so  that  the  glory  of  the  apart- 
ment never  diminished. 

"  Don't  put  on  a  pink  frock,"  warned  Miss  Penge,  poking 
her  curly  black  head  in  at  Pam's  door,  the  evening  after 
their  talk  about  Lensky  and  Lady  Freddy ;  "  The  Room  ob- 
jects to  any  colour  except  white  and  black,  (which  I  be- 
lieve aren't  colours  at  all),  but  it  positively  shrieks  at  pink!  " 

Pam,  who  was  sitting  half-dressed  by  the  dressing-table 
while  Pilgrim  put  on  her  stockings,  laughed. 

"  I  know.  I  am  wearing  black.  Dorothy  is  going  to  wear 
white,  isn't  she?  " 

"  Yes.    I'm  to  be  black,  too,  only  I'm  spangly." 

"  I'm  just  plain  black.     Has  Jack  come?  " 

Miss  Penge  came  in  and  closed  the  door.  "  Yes.  He  and 
Umslopagaas  are  smoking  together." 

"  Urn " 

"  Sid.  Before  his  hair  all  came  out,  he  used  to  call  him- 
self that.  Some  old  Greek  or  Roman,  Umslopagaas  was,  I 


PAM   DECIDES  275 

believe :  '  He  was  peaked  as  to  his  head,  and  sparse  woolly 
hair  grew  upon  it.'  I  wish  sparse  woolly  hair  grew  upon  it 
now, — not  that  it's  peaked,"  she  added  dismally,  "  and  the 
awful  roundness  seems  to  make  it  all  the  more  absurd — 

Pam  laughed.  " Du  liebst  ihn  dock,"  she  returned  with 
an  atrocious  accent,  glancing  at  Pilgrim,  "  and  as  I  feel 
a  pricking  in  my  thumbs  I  know  that  I  shall  shortly  be 
constrained  to  tell  him  so !  " 

When  she  opened  the  door  of  The  Room,  half-an-hour 
later,  she  stood  still  for  a  moment,  wondering  if  there  was 
time  for  her  to  turn  back  unobserved. 

Lady  Freddy,  whose  brilliant  colouring  not  even  her  gleam- 
ing yellow  surroundings  could  quite  quench,  was  at  the  piano, 
under  a  lamp,  her  white  skirts  billowing  softly  round  her, 
and  beside  her,  his  face  not  more  than  four  inches  from  hers, 
sat  Lensky,  worshipping.  His  smooth  head,  almost  white 
in  contrast  to  the  prevailing  shade  of  the  room,  was  bent 
in  an  attitude  of  adoration,  and  his  hands  were  folded  as  if 
in  prayer. 

Lady  Freddy,  hearing  the  opening  of  the  door,  turned, 
but  for  a  long  moment  he  did  not  change  his  attitude,  so  that 
when  he  did  look  round,  Pam  was  laughing. 

"  How  d'you  do?  I  am  glad!  "  he  cried,  springing  to  his 
feet  and  coming  towards  her.  "  And  how  well  you  look." 

"  You  don't  look  well,"  she  returned,  without  ceremony, 
studying  his  face  intently,  "been  ill?" 

Lady  Freddy  rose.  "  He's  been  gambling,  Pam,"  she  said, 
with  a  frown  of  vexation  on  her  dark  brows,  "  and  I've 
been  scolding  him." 


276  PAM  DECIDES 

Mrs.  Penge  just  then  hurrying  in,  Pam  had  a  chance  of  a 
word  aside  with  Dorothy. 

"  I  say,  Dolly, — ask  him  not  to,"  she  suggested,  remem- 
bering that  the  summer  before  when  he  had  wanted  to  marry 
her  he  had  said  that  he  would  never  again  touch  a  card. 

"  He  wouldn't  stop  because  I  wanted  him  to,"  answered 
Lady  Freddy,  as  she  turned  to  speak  to  a  newly  arrived  guest, 
and  Pam's  thin  shoulders  crept  despondently  up  towards 
her  ears  in  the  shrug  she  had  learnt  as  a  child. 

"  The  moment  appears  to  have  arrived,"  she  reflected, 
"  for  me  to  explain  these  two  souls  to  each  other." 

But  her  lot  at  dinner  was  not  Lensky,  but  the  bald-headed 
Mr.  Blythe.  "  I  say,  Miss  Yeoland,"  he  began,  as  they  sat 
down,  "how's  your  baby?" 

"  Quite  well,  thanks,"  answered  Pam,  innocently,  "  and 
she  is  really  beginning  to  look  like  a  human  being  at  last; 
she  smiles  and  her  eyes  are  blue,  and  her  hair " 

Conscience-smitten  she  broke  off  short,  and  then,  meeting 
his  gaze,  shaded  by  his  abnormal  lashes,  burst  out  laughing. 
"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  "  but  you  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  But  you  know,  when  all's  said  and  done,  the 
joke  has  its  serious  side.  I'm  awfully  keen  on  Buzzy,  and 
of  course  the  poor  girl  can't  marry  a  man  with  not  one  blade 
of  hair  on  his  head !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  try  wigs?  Graduated  ones — scant, 
richer,  then  ambrosial  ?  " 

"  As  if  anyone  «rold  fool  old  Buzzy !  " 

"  That's  triTs.  You  think  she'd  marry  you  if — it  would 
grow?" 


PAM    DECIDES  277 

Mr.  Blythe  «et  down  his  wine-glass.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  re- 
turned, confidentially,  "  she's  awfully  in  love  with  me,  you 
know ;  always  was.  She  proposed  to  me  when  she  was  eleven 
and  I  refused  her  because  her  legs  were  so  thin." 

"Then  why  don't  you  bully  her?  Men  are  so  silly," 
pursued  Pam,  softly,  "  to  be  so  patient  with  women.  Patience 
and  fidelity  are  the  vices  of  the  age,  I  think." 

"H'm!     Dorothy  doesn't  think  so." 

"Doesn't  she?" 

"  No,  poor  girl.  I  say,  do  you  like  our  friend  the 
Pole-Star?" 

"  I  do.    Immensely.    Don't  you?  " 

"  Only  know  him  a  little.  He  used  to  be  a  friend  of 
Fane's,  so  of  course  none  of  the  Penges  knew  him,  until 
Dolly  met  him  again  last  winter  and  they  got  to  be  such 
pals.  He  has  a  good  eye " 

"  Two,"  corrected  Pam,  watching  Lensky  as  he  talked 
to  Lady  Freddy. 

"Two,  then.  And  they  seem  fairly  contented  to  spend 
their  time  gazing  at  Dolly,  don't  they?  Uncle  Oliver — he's 
not  my  uncle,  but  one  of  my  aunts  married  his  brother — 
would  be  glad  if  it  came  off,  I  imagine.  The  divorce  was 
a  great  blow  to  Uncle  Oliver.  Only  your  bloods  take  to 
that  most  useful  institution,  don't  you  think?  He  hates 
having  people  know  about  it,  though  it  certainly  wasn't  her 
fault.  Awful  rotter,  Freddy,  poor  chap,  and  we  were  all 
so  fond  of  him." 

"  What  a  communicative  person  you  are,  Mr.  Blythe," 
Pam  remarked,  "  tell  me  more." 


278  PAM   DECIDES 

"  I've  told  you  all  I  know." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  you."  Then  she  turned  to  her 
other  neighbour,  an  old  gentleman  who,  having  heard  Blythe's 
question  about  the  baby,  opened  fire  by  enquiring  civilly  for 
her  husband. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Lady  Freddy  came  up  to  Pam 
and  took  her  arm.  "  Come  out  on  the  lawn,  dear,"  she 
said,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  warm  and  still,  and  softly  lighted 
by  a  huge  golden  moon,  and  the  two  women  crossed  the  lawn 
to  where  an  ancient  fountain,  brought  piece-meal  from  a 
villa  near  Florence,  flung  into  the  air  from  pipes  played  by 
fat-bellied  little  mediaeval  boys,  three  slender  streams  of 
silvered  water. 

"  I  always  feel  so  sorry  for  those  poor  little  banished 
Tuscans,"  Pam  said,  as  they  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench, 
"  I  know  they  are  homesick  and  hate  your  father  for  bringing 
them  to  this  cold  climate.  The  least  you  could  do  would 
be  to  provide  them  with  Jaeger  flannels  for  the  winter." 

Lady  Freddy  was  silent  for  a  moment,  her  beautiful  dark 
face  turned  away.  Then  she  answered  slowly,  "  I  was 
sitting  by  this  fountain — near  Fiesole — when  Freddy  asked 
me  to  marry  him." 

Pam  said  nothing,  but  laid  a  sympathetic  hand  on 
Dorothy's. 

"  Father  always  wonders  why  I  sit  here  so  much,  but — oh, 
Pam,  did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  No,  Dolly  dear." 

"  But — you  know  how  badly  he  behaved, — how  I   had 


PAM    DECIDES  279 

to  divorce  him, — well "  again  she  paused  and  Pam  shiv- 
ered involuntarily.  "  Well, — you  and  Buzzy  have  been  talk- 
ing about  Jack  Lensky,  I  know;  haven't  you?  And  rather 
hoping  I'd  marry  him  ?  So  now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing I  can't  tell  Buzzy;  it  would  make  her  too  wretched, 
but  you  can — put  the  other  idea  out  of  her  head.  I  divorced 
Freddy  because  I  despised  him,  and  because  I'd  have  lost 
all  self-respect  if  I  had  kept  on  living  with  him.  But — it 
wasn't  that  I  didn't— care  for  him." 

"Oh,  Dolly!" 

"  Yes, — '  Oh,  Dolly ! '  And  of  course  you,  with  your 
idealising  and  your  own  different  character  will  despise  me 
for  it,  and  never  be  able  to  understand,"  went  on  Lady 
Freddy,  rapidly,  "  but  now  that  I've  told  you  this  much  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  more.  He's  a  rake,  and  a  liar,  and  a 
gambler, — a  creature  to  be  despised,  and  I  despise  him,  but — 
I  also  love  him." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  Pam's  face  grew 
slowly  white.  Dorothy  thought  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand ! 

"  I  love  him,  I  tell  you,  bad  as  he  is,  and — if  I  saw  him 
coming  over  the  grass  now,  and  he  wanted  me — nothing  on 
earth  could  hold  me!" 

"  Yes  it  could,"  answered  Pam,  hoarsely.  "  I  couldn't, 
nor  your  family,  but — you  wouldn't  go." 

Lady  Freddy  rose.  "  Wouldn't  I !  Ah,  my  dear  child, 
I  was  a  fool  to  tell  you,  but — now  you  can  put  the  idea  of 
Jack  Lensky  out  of  Buzzy's  head.  And — I  don't  ask  you 
not  to  tell." 


280  PAM    DECIDES 

She  started  towards  the  house,  her  head  held  high. 
"  Luckily, — he  doesn't  want  me.  I  bored  him.  Jack  knew 
him, — sees  him  even  yet  sometimes,  and  that's  one  reason 
why  I  like  him — Jack — so  much." 

"  But — what  if — Jack  thinks — that  he  has  some  chance 
with  you  " — suggested  Pam,  with  a  pang  of  pity  for  Lensky, 
whom  Fate  seemed  about  to  play  such  a  curiously  repetitive 
prank. 

Dorothy  Fane  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  He  can  look 
out  for  himself,"  she  said,  carelessly. 


CHAPTER  IX 

'AND  you  are  happy?  " 

Lensky  studied  her  face,  his  own  frowning  with  intense 
interest  as  he  put  the  question.  As  she  answered,  his  frown 
smoothed  away,  for  it  was  met  with  a  contented  smile. 

"  Yes, — I  am  happy.  The  baby  is  such  a  dear,  and  I  am 
so  fond  of  the  Penges,  and  in  three  weeks  we  are  going  back 
to  Chimes  Lane." 

They  were  sitting  on  the  beach  not  far  from  the  place 
where  she  had  promised  to  marry  him,  but  she  did  not  think 
of  this,  nor,  apparently,  did  he.  Clad  all  in  white,  for  the 
day  was  warm,  he  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  round  his 
knees  and  watched  the  quiet  sea, 

"  You  have — not  heard  from  Peele  again  ?  ** 

"  No.  And  I  am  sure  that  he  will  keep  his  word  in  the 
spirit  as  well  as  in  the  letter.  He  is  not  really  bad,  you 
know,  and — well,  you  read  the  letter." 

"  It  was  a  charming  letter.  I  met  him  the  other  day. 
He  and  his  wife  were  staying  with  the  Wights,  and  I  was  at 
the  Ryburys'.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  it?" 

"  Yes,  please." 

Pam's  big,  flat  straw  hat  was  tilted  over  her  eyes,  and 
she  was  very  sunburned,  so  his  frankly  investigating  glance 
failed  to  enlighten  him  as  to  what  effect  his  news  was  hav- 
ing on  her. 


282  PAM   DECIDES 

"  He  is  a  very  clever  man, — he  and  the  Duke  got  to 
talking  politics  one  night  after  dinner  and  Peele  was—- 
wonderful. Not  exactly  brilliant,  or  witty,  but  so  tre- 
mendously sound  and  convincing.  He  changed  my  mind 
for  me  in  about  seven  minutes.  It  is  certainly  a  pity  he  has 
given  up  active  politics." 

"Yes.  There  was  a  time  when  he  was  considered,  by 
those  who  know,  to  be  one  of  the  most  promising  men  in  the 
Liberal  party.  And  he  was — very  keen.  His  health  was 
bad  for  a  long  time  after  his  marriage ;  he  has  some  kind  of 
heart-trouble,  which  partly  explains  his — idleness." 

Lensky  brushed  some  sand  off  his  blue  silk  socks  and 
changed  his  position.  "  He  went  out  of  his  way  to  be  civil 
to  me,"  he  continued,  "  and  we  had  several  talks  together. 
He  didn't  mention  you,  of  course,  but  I  could  see  that  the 
Duchess  had  told  him." 

"  Oh,  yes!  He — he  spoke  to  me  about  it  die  last  time  I 
saw  him." 

"  About  our  engagement?  ** 

His  matter-of-fact  pronouncing  of  the  simple  wcrdv 
seemed  to  her  to  present  in  a  concrete  form  what  had  for  s 
long  time  been  a  mere  shadowy  idea.  They  had  been  en- 
gaged, then,  after  all,  she  and  this  man,  and  he  had  not 
forgotten  it! 

"Yes.  The  Duchess  had  told  him  that  day,  and — that 
was  why  he — why  he  came." 

"Oh!  Well, — he  evidently  wanted  to  be  particularly 
amiable  to  me.  I  am  sorry  for  his  wife." 

"Why?" 


PAM    DECIDES  283 

"  Because  she  adores  him.  It  must  be  very  disagreeable 
iof  a  woman  to  adore  a  husband  who  doesn't  care  a  button 
for  her!" 

"Yes,"  answered  Pam,  very  humbly.    Lensky  stared. 

"  Oh,  you  child,"  he  cried,  "  do  you  feel  as  though  it 
were  your  fault?  Well,  it  isn't.  Women  will  never  leam, 
I  suppose,  that  if  their  husbands  are  not  in  love  with  them 
they  will  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Jones  if  not  with  Mrs. 
Smith  or  Miss  Robinson!  It  is  so  often  a  case  of  mental 
condition  rather  than  the  coup  de  foudre;  but — what  woman 
will  believe  it?" 

Pam  laughed.  "You  ought  to  write  a  book.  Do  you," 
she  added,  enjoying  the  safety  of  asking  him  the  question, 
"  judge  of  your  own  experience  ?  " 

"  Yes.  When  I  met  you,  for  instance,  I  was  ready  to 
fall  in  love  with  somebody;  not  with  anybody,— observe  the 
difference — and — you  came." 

After  a  moment  Pam  commented  with  a  nod,  and  a  laugn, 
"And  then — I  went." 

"Yes.  You  went, — alas,"  with  a  rococo  little  air  of 
gallant  regret. 

Pam  looked  at  him,  and  wondered  whether  she  dared 
warn  him  not  to  pin  his  hopes  to  Dorothy  Fane.  But.  al- 
though she  felt  as  much  at  ease  with  him  as  if,  she  put  it 
hypothetically,  she  had  been  his  grandmother,  she  did  not 
venture  to  mention  Lady  Freddy. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  ?  "  she  began,  after  a  pause.  "  I  promised 
to  be  home  by  four,  and  it  must  be  nearly  that  now." 

Their  way  led  to  the  beach  which,  first  curving  into  the 


284  PAM   DECIDES 

picturesque  but  not  altogether  fragrant  village  of  Bumble* 
mouth  proper,  gradually  led  eastward  again. 

"  What  about  Wantage?  "  asked  Lensky,  as  they  left  th» 
last  of  the  Bumblemouth  cottages  behind  them. 

"  He  is  still  butterflying.  To-morrow  he  comes  down  t» 
see  Pammy." 

"  Do  you  call  her  Pammy?  " 

"Yes.  Isn't  it  too  hideous  for  words?  I  say,  Jtck,— 
isn't  it  too  bad  about  Buzzy  and  Sidney  Blythe?  "• 

"Why  too  bad?" 

"  I  mean  about  his  hair." 

"  Ah,  bah !  If  a  woman  I  loved  wouldn't  marry  me 
because  I  was  bald  I  shouldn't  bother  her!  It's  the  only 
thing  I  dislike  about  Miss  Penge,  and  I  hate  it.  Lady 
Freddy  wouldn't  be  so  childish." 

"  Poor  Dorothy !     Tell  me  about  her  husband." 

"  Poor  old  Freddy!  He's  a  thorough  bad  lot,  but  I  rather 
love  him." 

"  So  does  she,"  blurted  out  Pam,  with  one  of  the  heedless 
impulses  she  had  so  tried  to  get  over.  "  I  mean " 

"  Do  you  think  she  cares  for  him  still  ?  "  asked  Lensky, 
suddenly  facing  her. 

"  Yes,  I  do.    I'd  no  business  to  say  so,  but  I  do." 

"Then, — Heaven  help  her." 

He  looked  more  moved  than  Pam  had  ever  seen  him,  his 
eyes  darkened  with  distress,  his  mouth  twisted  as  if  with  pain. 
Pam's  heart  sank.  She  had  not  thought  he  would  care  so 
much,  but  this  evidently  was  more  than  mere  sympathy,-— 
a  strong  personal  feeling  was,  she  could  see,  involved.  And 


PAM    DECIDES  285 

for  a  moment  she  hated  Dorothy  for  her  inconsiderate 
behaviour. 

Before  she  had  to  speak,  however,  he  had  shaken  off  the 
mood  that  distressed  her,  and  changed  the  subject  of  con- 
versation. They  found  Miss  Wantage  and  Cassandra  in 
Mrs.  Pounder's  little  garden.  The  baby,  when  she  saw 
Pam,  laughed  and  held  out  her  arms.  Pam  caught  her  up 
and  kissed  her. 

"  Isn't  she  a  dear?  "  the  girl  cried,  "  and  you  see  how  she 
knows  me  ?  " 

De  Lensky  nodded,  and  inspected  the  child  judicially. 
"  She  has  improved,"  he  remarked,  "  but  her  nose  is  still 
very  queer.  What's  that  horrid  thing  round  her  neck  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  horrid.  It's  arrow-root  and  very  good  for  her 
tooth.  Isn't  her  hair  delicious?  " 

"  Charming.  On  the  whole,  I  congratulate  you.  Bellina, 
la  piccina"  he  added  to  the  nurse,  who  nodded  in  delight  and 
embarked  in  an  ecstatic  catalogue  of  the  child's  perfections, 
sure  of  sympathy  from  the  beautiful  gentleman  with  the 
beautiful  smile. 

The  next  time  Pam  saw  Lady  Freddy  she  promptly 
attacked  her  on  the  subject  of  Lensky. 

"  Is  Jack  in  love  with  you  ?  "  she  asked  point-blank. 

Lady  Freddy  smiled.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  What 
do  you  think?  " 

"  I  think — well, — I'm  afraid  he  is, — or  going  to  be. 
Couldn't  you  be  just  a  wee  bit  less  nice  to  him,  Dolly?  It 
would  be  so  awful,  you  know,  if  he  got — hurt." 

Dorothy   smiled    again.     "  One   would    think    you    had 


286  PAM    DECIDES 

adopted  him  as  well  as  Pammy,"  she  said.  "Well,  he's 
gone  now,  and  I  shan't  see  him  till  December,  but  if  you 
really  think  there's  any  danger,  I'll — be  less  nice.  Though 
I  honestly  believe  Master  Jack  quite  capable  of  taking  care 
of  himself."  Then  she  added,  very  kindly,  one  hand  laid 
on  Pam's  arm,  "  Don't  get  the  old-maidish  habit  of  taking 
care  of  your  friends,  dear.  No  one  can  iron  out  one's  mental 
wrinkles  but  one's  self " 

Pam  burst  out  laughing.  "  Oh,  you  darling !  Indeed  I 
do  mind  my  own  business  as  a  rule,  but  I'm  so  fond  of  Jack, 
and  you  told  me  yourself  that  you  were  so  friendly  with  him 
— for  your  own  reasons.  And  you  are  so  awfully  attractive, 
you  know !  " 

Lady  Freddy  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Am  I  ?  I  know 
one  person  who  doesn't  think  so.  However " 

"  I'm  afraid  you  think  too  much  about — that  person," 
ventured  Pam,  full  of  pity  for  this  woman  whose  story  bore 
such  a  strange  resemblance  to  her  own. 

"Think!  And  do  you  think  that  I  can  help  it?  Oh, 
Pam,  you  are  so  young,  and  know  so  little.  I  did  the  right 
thing,  didn't  I  ?  And  the  '  only  thing  a  self-respecting 
woman ' — etc.  Well,  I  tell  you  now  that  there  isn't  a  mo- 
ment in  my  life  that  I  don't  regret  it !  If  he  were  mine  now 
I'd  keep  him  if  he  murdered.  And  I'd  be  happier  than  I 
am  this  way !  " 

She  clasped  her  hands  until  the  knuckles  whitened.  "  No- 
body knows  but  you, — but  it  is  a  relief  to  tell  you.  If  he 
beat  me  and — did  everything  else  possible,  I'd  not  suffer  this 
way." 


PAM    DECIDES  287 

And  Pam,  listening,  failed  to  understand. 

She  had  succeeded  in  putting  Peele  out  of  her  life,  and 
comparative  peace  had  crowned  her  success. 

This  woman  had  divorced  the  man  she  despised,  but  no 
peace  had  come  to  her.  Why  ? 

"  She  must  be  stronger  than  I,"  decided  the  girl,  humbly, 
*  her  affections  are  so  much  deeper." 

September  waned,  and  October  came;  a  rainy,  misty 
month,  brown  and  russet  and  grey. 

The  Penges,  who  had  stayed  on  so  long  because  of  an 
attack  of  gout  that  nailed  the  inventor  of  the  great  pills  to 
his  chair,  left  Hinchingly  on  the  fifth,  and  on  the  tenth  the 
two  Pams  and  Cassandra  went  to  town. 

Pilgrim,  who  had  preceded  them  by  several  days,  met 
them  at  the  Chimes  Lane  door  with  one  of  the  heartiest  smiles 
seen  on  her  grim  face  for  years. 

"  Oh,  Pam,  how  I  'ave  missed  you !  And  'ow  well  she 
looks.  'Ow  d'you  do,  Cassandra?  " 

Pam  took  the  baby  from  her  nurse  and  herself  carried  the 
little  creature  over  the  threshold. 

"  Welcome  home,  Pammy  darling,"  she  whispered,  her 
heart  warm. 

Ah,  how  cosy  it  all  looked.  And  how  the  fires  blazed 
and  glowed,  and  how  good  her  lonely  dinner  was,  at  the 
round  table  in  the  Oak  Hall. 

It  seemed  years  since  that  horrible  travesty  of  a  meal  with 
de  Lensky,  and  a  certain  middle-aged  contentment  had  set- 
tled down  on  her.  The  storms  had  died,  and  the  wreckage 
was  cleared  away.  And  upstairs, — -though  how  differently 


288  PAM    DECIDES 

from  the  way  of  her  dreams, — lay  the  baby  In  her  cradle  in 
the  long  room  with  the  two  windows! 

As  to  Peele, — her  love  for  him  was  like  an  unwelcome  in- 
mate of  a  household.  It  had  come,  and  to  stay.  It  sat  in 
the  chimney-corner  preventing  all  young  mirth,  all  great 
joy,  but  at  least  she  was  now  used  to  it,  could  look  it  in  the 
face  without  flinching,  and  the  calmness  that  inevitably  fol- 
lows the  brave  acceptance  of  any  trouble,  was  hers. 

And  the  unwelcome  guest  could  not  follow  her  to  one 
sanctuary.  Into  the  room  with  the  cradle  he  could  not 
come,  and  when  the  baby  was  in  her  arms  he  slunk  away, 
abashed. 


CHAPTER   X 

ONE  morning  Pam  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  White  Study  with 
the  baby  on  her  lap.  Before  them  knelt  Cassandra  in 
adoration,  and  behind  her,  a  grim  figure  enough,  but  deeply 
interested,  stood  Pilgrim. 

It  was  a  red-letter  day,  for  it  marked  an  important  mile- 
stone in  the  development  of  Miss  Wantage's  intelligence. 

"  It's  only  a  minute  now,  Pilly,"  cried  Pam,  breathlessly ; 
"  don't  stare  at  her  so,  or  you'll  frighten  her.  Now  then,— 
hark,  Baby!  Listen,  Heart's  Delight!" 

And  verily,  as  Big  Ben  struck  the  hour,  the  baby  turned, 
as  she  had  turned  at  the  preceding  quarter  and  smiled  a 
toothless  but  radiant  smile  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
music  seemed  to  come. 

"  She  is  going  to  be  very  musical,"  announced  Pam 
sententiously.  "  Isn't  it  wonderful,  Pilly?  And  she  not 
yet  six  months  old!  Che  gioia,  eh,  Cassandra?  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,  Miss  Pam,"  remarked  Pilgrim,  "  when 
you  was  'er  age,  you  used  to  laugh  like  anythink  when  your 
puppaw  made  'is  watch  strike !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  You're  always  iconoclasting,  you 
old  wretch!  Come,  Heart's  Delight,  pat-a-cake,  pat-a- 
cake " 

Pilgrim,  who  had  been  summoned  to  witness  the  repetition 
of  the  phenomenon  relative  to  the  chimes,  retired  with  an 

289 


29o  PAM   DECIDES 

injured  toss  of  her  new  brown  hair,  and  Pam  and  the 
nurse  were  still  busy  worshipping  when  de  Lensky  came  in. 

"  You, — at  this  time  of  day!  But  be  welcome, — sit  down. 
What,"  she  added,  as  the  Italian  withdrew,  "  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Lensky  looked  for  him,  disturbed,  and  for  the  first  time 
she  saw  his  hair  slightly  ruffled  as  if  by  the  passage  of  a 
restless  hand. 

"  It's  this,"  he  answered,  sitting  down  and  explaining 
with  his  usual  directness,  "  Freddy  Fane  is  going  to  marry." 

"Freddy  Fane!" 

"  Yes.  A  chorus-girl.  I  saw  him  last  night  and — he 
was  a  little  drunk, — he  told  me.  It  is — -horrible." 

Pam  stared.  "But — why  shouldn't  he  marry?  And 
whatever  the  girl  is  she  must  be  good  enough  for  him !  " 

"  Too  good  for  him,  but  that's  not  the  point.  The  point 
is  that  Dorothy  Fane  will  be  awfully  upset  about  it.  She — 

I've  seen  her  twice  of  late,  did  I  tell  you? — And "  he 

broke  off,  biting  his  lips  nervously.  "  And  "-so  I've  come 
to  you." 

"To  me?" 

"  Yes.  Someone  must  tell  her, — alone.  She  mustn't 
just  hear  it  accidentally,  or  she'd — give  herself  away.  She 
• — in  two  words,  will  you  tell  her?" 

For  a  moment  Pam  was  silent,  and  then  she  answered 
slowly,  "  Yes,  I  will,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"  Thanks !  I  knew  you  would.  She's  in  town  to-day  with 
Buzzy, — at  Claridge's.  Will  you  let  me  send  her  a  wire 
in  your  name  asking  her  to  come  here?  " 

"  Yes.    Anything  you  like.    I  am  so  sorry  for  her!  " 


PAM   DECIDES  291 

"  So  am  I,"  he  returned  gravely. 

But  Pam,  though  she  longed  to,  dared  not  add  that  she 
was  still  sorrier  for  de  Lensky  himself.  There  was  to  her 
something  inexpressibly  pitiful  in  the  slight  disorder  of  his 
hair,  and  his  unwonted  and  marked  nervousness  distressed 
her  deeply. 

"  Please  don't  tell  her  I  told  you,"  began  Lensky  at 
length,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "  Just  say  you  know  it  to  be 
true.  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  know  we  have  talked  her 
over." 

"  We  haven't  talked  her  over.  I  don't  believe  you  ever 
talked  over  one  of  your  friends  in  your  life, — no  matter 
with  whom." 

"  I  try  not  to,"  he  answered  with  a  certain  simplicity;  "  no 
one  shows  the  same  side  to  different  people,  and  the  side  I 
am  shown  is  mine,  and  I  never  show  it  to  a  third  person  any 
more  than  I'd  read  aloud  to  anyone  a  letter  written  to  me." 

"  I  read  you— Mr.  Peele's." 

"  That  was  different,"  he  returned;  "  I  was  trying  to  help 
you,  as  if  I  were  your  brother, — though  you  don't  need  much 
help.  I  wish  poor  Lady  Freddy  were  more  like  you." 

"  Good  Heavens !  By  the  way,  you'll  lunch  with  me  ? 
It's  half-past  one  now." 

"With  pleasure,  if  you'll  let  me  go  out  and  wire  Lady 
Freddy  first." 

When  he  came  back  the  baby  had  fallen  asleep  and  Pam 
was  huddled  on  the  divan  crooning  to  it  under  her  breath. 

"  Ring  twice,  will  you  ?  " 

He  stood  waiting  for  someone  to  come,  his  gaze  fixed 


292  PAM   DECIDES 

intently  on  Pam.  She  was  far  from  belonging  to  the  con- 
ventional Madonna  type,  but  she  looked  like  a  young  gipsy 
mother  hushing  her  baby,  her  dark  head  bent. 

When  the  nurse  had  carried  away  the  child  Lensky  said 
gently,  "  I  am  so  glad  about  the  little  girl.  She  will  be  a 
great  comfort  to  you." 

"Ah,  yes, — and  a  protection,"  she  answered,  her  eyes 
very  grave,  "  and  now  let's  go  and  eat  much  flesh  and  drink 
much  wine." 

Her  task  of  breaking  to  Lady  Freddy  the  news  of  her 
ex-husband's  culminating  offence  was  a  hard  one,  and  she 
could  have  faced  it  with  much  greater  confidence  if  she 
had  been  prepared  in  some  measure  by  Lensky.  She  knew 
by  his  manner  that  there  were  complications  of  which  she 
was  unaware,  but  she  so  thoroughly  understood  his  peculiar 
code  of  loyalty  that  she  did  not  for  a  second  contemplate 
asking  him  for  elucidation,  and  when  he  began  chatting 
about  the  Duchess,  about  Evelyn,  about  a  variety  of  more 
or  less  amusing  town  gossip,  she  followed  his  lead,  instinc- 
tively trusting  in  the  wisdom  of  his  way. 

"  There  are  no  delightful  potins  this  autumn,"  he  de- 
clared, "  no  woman  has  even  accused  another  of  cheating  at 
Bridge!" 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  gambling  awfully,"  remarked  Pam, 
as  the  maid  left  the  room. 

He  laughed.  "  No.  I  am  at  present  leading  a  blameless 
life  in  that  respect, — tr'iste  necessite,  du  reste.  Moreover, 
I'm  never  as  bad  as  I'm  painted :  like  another  young  man  of 
whom  we've  all  heard." 


PAM    DECIDES  293 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  Dorothy  told  me  awful  tales  in 
September." 

"  I  know.  They  were  true, — I  told  her  myself.  But  I 
shall  never  ruin  myself  at  cards,  though  I  confess  to  you  that 
I  know  nothing  so  engrossing,  so  enchanting  in  the  world, 
as  a  game  of  bac.  It  carries  one  completely  away, — one 
forgets  everything  else  on  earth,  nothing  else  matters.  It 
is  glorious  excitement." 

"  You  ought  to  try  steeple-chasing." 

"  Steeple-chasing !  No !  I  prefer  chemin  de  fer  any  day, 
to  any  kind  of  riding!  " 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  say  you'll  never  ruin  yourself.  I 
don't  like  *  bringing-up  '  my  friends,  but  I  should  hate  to  have 
you  really  hurt  yourself." 

"You  need  not  worry.  I  am  not  a  spendthrift,  and — 
I  shall  marry  some  day.  My  estates  are  entailed,  and  my 
name  is  an  old  one." 

Pam  nodded.  "  Of  course."  But  she  resolved  to  make 
Dorothy  Fane  see  the  necessity  of  letting  him  know  that  she 
never  could  marry  him. 

After  luncheon  they  sat  talking  for  an  hour,  and  then 
he  left,  promising  to  return  the  next  day  to  learn  the  result 
of  her  interview  with  Lady  Freddy. 

"To-morrow  is  my  twenty-ninth  birthday,  by  the  way," 
she  added,  giving  him  her  hand,  "  so  we'll  take  a  walk  to 
celebrate,  and  then — can  you  dine  with  me  ?  " 

"  With  great  pleasure.     Au  revoir,  then." 

Lady  Freddy  came  at  four  o'clock,  looking  very  hand- 
some and  a  little  excited. 


294  PAM    DECIDES 

"  Only  came  up  yesterday,"  she  explained,  "  and  am  go- 
ing to  Paris  on  T\iesday.  How  are  you,  and  is  anything 
wrong?  " 

"  Sit  down.     I  have  something  to  tell  you " 

"And  I  to  tell  you!  Sid's  hair  is  beginning  to  grow. 
That  is,  we  think  it's  hair!  Something  is  coming  up  on  his 
scalp  the  past  ten  days,  and  we  spend  our  time  watching  it. 
Buzzy  is  so  absurd,  she  wants  to  sprinkle  bone-dust  over  it, 
and  goes  on  in  the  most  insane  way,  but — she  is  very  happy 
about  it." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  Only  I  think  she  might  have  taken  him 
on  trust." 

"  So  do  I !     I — but  what  is  the  matter?  " 

Suddenly  Pam  lost  her  nerve.  "  Nothing.  I — but  you 
look  as  if  something  had  happened.  What  is  it?" 

Lady  Freddy  blushed  scarlet.  "  Oh,— I— well,  yes,  I'll 
tell  you.  I — I  am  going  to  see  Freddy  to-morrow." 

"  Going  to  see " 

"Yes."  Her  dark  face  so  curiously  like  Pam's,  for  all 
its  beauty,  glowed  with  shamefaced  happiness. 

"  I — couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  and — I  just  wrote  and 
asked  him  to  come  to  see  me.  I  had  a  wire  from  him  this 
morning — he  is  coming." 

This,  then,  was  what  Lensky  had  known;  and  Fane  him- 
self must  have  told  him.  Pam's  breath  caught  in  her  throat, 
and  then  after  a  pause  she  rushed  at  her  fence. 

"  You  mustn't  see  him,  Dorothy,"  she  said,  boldly,  "  he  is 
going  to  marry  again."" 


PAM    DECIDES  295 

Lady  Freddy  sat  .quite  still.  Then  she  asked  quietly, 
"Whom?" 

"  Oh — a  girl.  That  doesn't  matter,  does  it  ?  I  heard 
it  and  wanted  to  tell  you  myself.  I — was  afraid  it  would  be 
a  shock." 

"  A  shock,"  repeated  the  other  woman,  bitterly,  "  a  shock ! 
You  don't  know  what  the  word  means.  It  has  broken  some- 
thing in  me — not  my  heart, — I  don't  know  what,  but — 
something."  After  a  long  silence  during  which  she  walked 
nervously  about  the  little  room,  she  went  on,  "  Oh,  take 
my  advice,  Pam,  and  never  love  a  man.  Even  good  ones 
hurt  us,  and  bad  ones  like  him — crucify  us.  I  am  crucified 

now, "  Again  she  walked  across  the  room,  where  she 

stood  staring  at  a  print  of  an  old  man  in  pink  drinking  a 
pint  of  ale  in  front  of  an  ale-house. 

"  Buzzy  thinks  she  loves  Sidney, — now  that  his  hair  is 
growing.  And  there  is  only  one  word  for  what  she  feels, 
and  what  I  feel.  It  is — laughable.  Now  I  must  go. 
Thanks  for  telling  me,  Pam;  you  are  a  dear  little  thing. 
I  hope  you'll  always  understand  me  as  little  as  you  do 
now!" 

"  Perhaps  I  understand — better  than  you  think,  Dolly." 

Lady  Freddy  laughed.  "  You  child !  Well, — one  thing, 
— I  shall  not  go  on  bearing  his  name  much  longer.  That 
woman  will  be  '  Lady  Freddy  Fane,' — oh,  my  God !  I — I 
shall  marry,  Pam."  Lady  Freddy's  face  was  rigid  with 
sudden  determination  as  she  took  the  girl's  hand.  "  And — • 
he  shan't  know  that — that  I  am  such  a  fool." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  rather — banal — to  marry  out  of  pique  ?  *' 


296  PAM    DECIDES 

Pam  spoke  with  deliberate  coolness,  but  her  effort  had  no 
effect. 

"  No.     No  one  will  know !     And — I   could   marry  to- 
morrow, if  I  chose!     There  may,"  she  added,  laughing  more 
naturally,  "  be  hope  now  for  your  protege,  Jack!  " 
1     Pam's  brows  met  in  a  quick  frown.     "  You  shan't  marry 
Jack  out  of — spite,  Dorothy!  " 

Lady  Freddy  took  the  girl's  chin  in  her  hand  and  looked 
into  her  eyes.  "  Dear  loyal  little  Pam !  No, — Jack  is  too 
good  for  that,  but — I  like  him  the  best  of  all, — and — who 
knows  ?  Ah, — and  he  is  coming  to  see  me  to-morrow ! " 

When  she  was  alone,  Pam  sat  down  on  the  rug  and  built 
up  her  fire.  She  had  never  before  recognised  the  fact  that  her 
knowledge  of  Peek's  suffering  had  greatly  helped  to  mitigate 
her  own.  He  loved  her  in  his  way  as  much  as  she  loved  him, 
and  he  longed  for  her  even  more  than  she  longed  for  him. 
§p  her  jealousy  lay  dormant. 

But  suppose  he  were  free,  and  she  should  hear  that  he 
was  going  to  marry  another  woman. 

At  the  very  thought  she  groaned  aloud,  and  then,  desert* 
ing  her  fire,  fled  upstairs  to  the  baby. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IT  rained  on  the  fourteenth  of  November  that  year,  rained 
in  a  pathetic,  hopeless  way  as  if  it  didn't  much  care  about 
doing  so,  but  could  not  help  it.  And  it  also  fogged. 

Pam,  very  smart  in  her  one  new  frock,  a  dark,  tailor-made 
coat  and  skirt,  and  a  mannish  felt  hat,  went  in  the  morning 
to  see  the  Duchess,  who  presented  her  with  a  little  pearl 
brooch  and  wished  her  many  happy  returns  of  the  day. 

"  Thanks.  One's  twenty-ninth  birthday  isn't  a  very  joy- 
ous occasion,  I  suppose,  but  I  feel  strangely  resigned  to 
growing  old,  somehow." 

"H'ml    What  about  poor  Jack?" 

"Dear  Jack, — he  is  coming  this  afternoon  to  help  cele- 
brate. But  please  don't  waste  any  pity  on  him,  Duchess. 
He  got  over  his  attack  of  Pamania  with  the  most  unflatter- 
ing ease,  and  we  are  now  the  best  of  friends." 

"  I  know, — but — well,  I've  never  asked  any  questions 
about  your  breaking  your  engagement,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  begin  now,  but  broken  engagements  have  been  known  to 
mend, " 

Pam  laughed.  "Not  this  one!  You  must  just  make  up 
your  mind  to  let  me  live  and  die  an  old  maid,  and  before  you 
know  it  you'll  be  plotting  against  young  Pam's  liberty." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  Oswald  would  say  if  he 
knew  you  had  adopted  a  baby!  Of  course  you  are  prepared 
to  have  people  in  the  future  say  she  is  your  own" 

297 


298  PAM    DECIDES 

" '  Say  ?  What  do  they  say  ?  Let  them  say,'  "  quoted 
the  girl  cheerfully.  "If  I  had  a  motto,  that  would  be  it. 
And  I  am  sure  my  G.F.  would  have  been  delighted  to  know 
that  I  am  no  longer  alone.  Not  that  I  ever  minded  being 
alone,"  she  added,  "  but  most  people  think  one  must.  You 
must  come  to  lunch  and  see  the  baby,  will  you  ?  Pilly,  in  the 
role  of  grandmother,  is  exquisite !  " 

"  She  must  be !     What  do  you  hear  from  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  I  never  hear  from  Mother.  Father  writes  occa- 
sionally. I  heard  from  him  in  August, — they  are  both  well 
and  so  pleased  about  the  house.  I  shall  soon  have  another 
letter, — for  my  birthday.  Have  you,"  she  went  on,  chang- 
ing the  subject  deliberately,  "  seen  anything  of  the  delectable 
Ratty  and  his  wife  ?  " 

The  Duchess  laughed.  "Yes.  His  importance  on  th% 
impending  arrival  is  something  most  impressive.  It  is  to  be 
a  boy.  And  I've  no  doubt  Ratty  will  take  to  his  bed  on  the 
great  day  as  the  men  of  certain  African  tribes  do." 

"  Poor  old  Ratty.  I  am  so  glad  he's  happy ;  his  misery, 
absurd  as  it  was,  used  to  make  me  quite  wretched." 

"  Yes, — he  was  rather  pitiful, — different  from  de  Lensky! 
I  can  even  now  hardly  believe  that  the  serene  Jack  ever 
was  a  Pamaniac." 

"  He  wasn't,"  avowed  Pam,  sincerely,  "  he  told  me  him- 
self, down  at  Bumblemouth,  that  it  was  chiefly  because  the 
time  had  arrived  for  him  to — well,  to  fall  in  love, — and 
that  I  appeared  as  the  hour  struck." 

"  Is  he  still  worshipping  Lady  Freddy  Fane  ?  " 

Pam  rose.     "  Yes, — apparently.     When  I  die,  he  ought 


PAM    DECIDES  299 

to  have  me  stuffed  and  mounted  as  a  souvenir  of  the  one 
plain  woman  he  ever  looked  at !  " 

She  went  home  in  a  hansom,  a  rare  treat  for  her  in  these 
days  of  economy,  to  save  her  new  clothes,  and  when  de 
Lensky  arrived,  at  about  three,  he  found  her  in  an  old  coat 
and  skirt,  and  the  hat  she  had  worn  that  day  in  St.  Giles' 
Churchyard. 

"  I  must  have  some  exercise,"  she  declared,  shaking  hands 
with  him,  "  so  if  you  don't  mind,  we'll  go  for  a  tramp  and 
then  come  back  for  tea, — unless  you'd  like  to  invite  Pilly 
and  me  to  tea  at  your  rooms  ?  " 

"  Come  to  tea  by  all  means, — but  I  should  most  awfully 
mind  a  tramp  in  the  rain!  I  loathe  a  wetting,  ana  I've  got 
on  thin  shoes." 

She  laughed.  "  All  right,  then  let's  go  to  the  Abbey  and 
prance  round  and  round  the  Cloister,  will  you?  I  must 
have  a  walk." 

He  agreed  without  comment  to  this  plan,  and  once  again 
it  occurred  to  her  how  remarkably  consistent  he  was.  He 
disliked  getting  wet,  and  said  so  without  apology,  either  in- 
different to  the  possibility  of  her  thinking  him  a  muff,  or 
tranquilly  certain  that  she  would  not  make  this  mistake. 
So  they  took  a  four-wheeler  to  Old  Dean's  Yard  and  hurried 
under  dripping  umbrellas  into  the  Cloister  where  he  had 
first  spoken  to  her. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  as  they  started  walking  briskly  towards 
Jane  Lister's  tablet,  "  tell  me  about  Lady  Freddy." 

"  I  told  her, — and  she  thanked  me,"  returned  Pam,  taking 
a  leaf  out  of  his  own  book. 


300  PAM    DECIDES 

"  Did  she — tell  you  nothing?" 

She  looked  at  him.  "  She  told  me  several  things,  some 
of  which  you  know,  some  of  which  you  don't.  Do  you 
think  I  ought  to  say  any  more?  " 

"  No.  Well, — thanks  for  telling  her.  I — it  troubled  me 
horribly." 

"  I  saw  that.     You  are  very  fond  of  her,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Very.  I  like  them  all,  but  Dorothy  is  the  one  of  whom  I 
am  fondest.  It — made  me  perfectly  miserable,  knowing  about 
Fane's  engagement,  and  that  she — would  have  to  be  told." 

For  several  minutes  they  walked  in  silence,  while  Pam 
turned  over  and  over  in  her  hurrying  mind  the  question  of 
the  best  way  for  her  to  broach  the  subject  that  was  oc- 
cupying A. 

"  '  Jane  Lister,  deare  childe,'  "  he  read,  stopping  and  look- 
ing up  at  the  words.  "  Do  you  remember?" 

"  Of  course  I  do !  Nearly  two  years  ago,  too.  Isn't  it 
strange  to  think  that  it  is  so  long !  " 

"  It  seems  much  longer  to  me,"  he  returned,  gravely. 

"  Does  it  ?  Well,  yes.  I  daresay  it  does.  Look  here, 
Jack,  may  I  say  something  to  you  ?  " 

He  came  closer,  looking  at  her.  "  You  may  say  anything 
to  me,  dear  friend." 

"  But — it's  really  a — a  terrifically  cheeky  thing, — you 
won't  be  angry  ?  " 

"  No.  What  is,"  he  smiled  very  sweetly  at  her,  "  the 
terrific  thing?  " 

On  the  grass  beyond  the  arches  the  rain  fell  steadily;  it 
was  very  still  in  the  old  place,  the  last  minor  canon  had 


PAM    DECIDES  301 

flitted  past  into  the  Abbey  for  the  evening  service.  Pam 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  laying  her  hand  on 
Lensky's  arm,  looked  into  his  beautiful,  clear,  eyes. 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  Dolly  Fane,"  she  said,  slowly, 
"well, — not  just  yet,  of  course,  but  later, — I  think — I  am 
quite  sure  she  would  marry  you." 

Lensky  turned  very  white.  "Lady  Freddy  marry  me! 
What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  sternly. 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say, — you  needn't  glare  at  me, — you 
promised  not  to  be  angry.  I  think  that  when  the  first — pain 
— of  that  beast's  marriage  is  over,  she  might  marry  you." 

For  several  minutes  he  was  silent,  and  when  he  answered 
it  was  in  a  queer  choked  voice  that  half  frightened  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  ?  Whether  you  do,  or  not,  it  is — 
abominable." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  him  even  annoyed, 
and  this  anger  was,  she  saw,  very  intense.  It  seemed  so 
utterly  disproportionate  to  her  offence,  if  offence  there  really 
were,  that  she  stared  at  his  white  face  in  absolute  dismay. 

"  I — I  don't  see  why  you  are  so  furious,"  she  protested. 
"  I  asked  you  if  I  might  say  it." 

"  Do  you  really  think  I  love  Dorothy  Fane  ? "  he  re- 
torted, paying  no  attention  to  her  words.  "  Do  you  really 
think  that?" 

"Yes — I — I  did.  And  not  only  I.  Several  people 
thought  it." 

"  Several  people!    Did  they  know  what  you  knew?  " 

He  forced  a  laugh,  but  it  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  "  You 
don't  seem  to  know  that  you  are  insulting  me." 


302  PAM   DECIDES 

"  That  is  ridiculous,"  answered  Pam,  shortly. 

"  Perhaps  it  is."  He  made  a  visible  effort  to  control  him- 
self, but  he  failed.  The  door  of  his  patience  had  given 
way,  and  out  rushed  the  waters  of  wrath. 

"Two  years  ago  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said,  his 
accent  very  marked.  "A  year  ago  I  asked  you  again.  I 
asked  you  to  marry  me  because  I  loved  you.  Do  you  know 
what  love  is?  Does  it  change  vvith  a  few  short  months? 
Is  it  a  cloak  that  one  puts  on  and  takes  off  as  the  weather 
rhanges?  Do  you  think  I'm  a  school-boy  not  to  know  my 
iwn  mind?  Do  you  think  me  a  fool  who  did  not  know 
what  he  was  saying?  What  did  you  think  my  love  was?  A 
'ancy, — a — a  flirtation?  I — what  are  you,  of  what  are  you 
-.nade,  to  judge  me  so?  Of  what  worth  are  your  feelings 
that  you  so  misunderstood  mine  ?  " 

"  Please  try  to  control  yourself,"  answered  Pam,  "  I  dis- 
iike  heroics." 

His  voice  changed  again,  growing  a  shade  more  unrecog- 
j  ;sable  in  its  white  anger.  "  Heroics !  Ah,  yes.  The  scorn 
<,'•  the  Anglo-Saxon  for  the  savage  Continental!  Did  I 
a<vioy  you  with  heroics  when  without  a  thought  for  me  you 
broke  our  engagement?  Did  I  bore  you  with  melodrama 
when  you  went  away  and  I  heard  nothing  of  you  for  months? 
And  when  I  came  to  your  Villa,  was  I — over-emotional? 
No !  You  wanted  a  friend,  and  because  I  loved  you  I  could 
make  myself  into  the  semblance  of  one  for  you ;  you  wanted 
a  confidant  and  I  listened  to  your  stories  of  that  other  man ; 
I  even  read  his  letters!  I  watched  you  holding  that  baby  in 
your  arms, — your  arms  that  should  have  held  my  children. 


PAM   DECIDES  303 

You  wanted  an  old  woman  to  talk  to,  and  I,  who  never  lie, 
never  pose,  pretended  to  be  that  old  woman.  And  this  is 
what  you  give  me  in  return.  Not  even  enough  under- 
standing to  know  that  because  a  man  can  control  himself,  he 

is  not — bah !  You  don't  deserve  love  like  mine !  Well, '' 

Suddenly  he  broke  off,  and  taking  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  wiped  his  forehead, — his  face  that  looked  old  and 
worn. 

Pam  stood  quite  still.  She  had,  then,  lost  her  friend,  or 
what  was  worse,  he  had  never  been  her  friend.  Her  anger  had 
gone,  leaving  her  feeling  very  young,  and  lonely,  and  pitiful. 

A  great  sorrow  for  herself  swelled  her  throat.  Lensky 
took  his  glass  and  polished  it.  Then  putting  his  handker- 
chief away,  he  said  very  gently,  "  I — beg  your  pardon.  Cart 
you  forgive  me,  before  I  go  ?  " 

"  I — of  course  I  forgive  you.  And — can  you  forgive  me  ? 
I  must  have  hurt  you  a  hundred  times,  but — I  didn't  know." 

He  smiled.  "  Ah,  yes, — a  thousand  times,  but  you  didn't 
know.  Now  will  you  please  go.  I  shall  stay  here  a  little 
while,  and  go  out  by  Victoria  Street." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "  You  mean, — good-bye  for 
always?" 

"  Yes.  It's  the  only  way.  Go  home  to  the  baby  and  be — 
blessed.  Good-bye." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  stinging  tears.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
very  foundations  of  things  were  giving  way,  now  that  he 
had  failed  her.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said  with  a  little  haughty 
humble  nod.  Then  she  left  him  standing  alone  by  deare 
Jane  Lister's  tomb. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  hard,  after  months  of  happiness  m  her  belief  in 
Lensky's  friendship,  for  Pam  to  have  to  entirely  readjust  her 
state  of  mind  regarding  him.  She  had  been  extremely  angry 
when  he  first  lost  his  head  in  the  Cloisters,  and  her  anger  was 
not  unmixed  with  the  Anglo-Saxon's  scorn  for  what  she  had 
roughly  classified  as  heroics.  If  this  white-faced,  ranting 
man  was  the  real  de  Lensky,  if  this  unbridled  fury  expressed 
his  genuine  character,  then  where  was  the  serene,  bland- 
tempered  little  gentleman  in  whom  she  had  so  oddly  trusted  ? 

The  lines  in  the  face  in  the  Cloisters  had  so  changed  it 
that  it  was  almost  inconceivable  that  it  was  the  one  that 
had  grown  to  be  so  very  dear  to  the  solitary  woman,  and  for 
days  she  could  not  forget  it.  In  her  dreams  it  came  to  her, 
haggard,  threatening,  almost  terrible  in  its  absolute  sur- 
render to  fury,  and  as  she  went  her  daily  round  of  simple 
duties  and  pleasures  it  seemed  to  stare  at  her  from  corners 
and  lurk  near  her  wherever  she  was. 

The  absolute  silence  that  followed  his  disappearance  from 
her  ken,  served,  too,  to  enhance  the  queer  kind  of  frightened 
loneliness  that  oppressed  her.  If  he  had  written  to  say  again 
that  he  was  sorry,  she  could  easier  have  found  her  bearings, 
but  she  heard  not  a  word  from  him  as  time  passed,  and 
November  merged  into  December. 

"  Of  course  he  wouldn't  write,"  she  told  herself  more  than 
once,  "  if  he  did,  it  would  be  utterly  inconsistent "  And 


PAM   DECIDES  305 

then  she  came  to  a  halt,  for  the  enormous,  almost  grotesque 
inconsistency  of  his  behaviour  in  the  Cloister  had  pulled 
into  a  shapeless  heap  of  ruins  the  mental  image  she  had  set 
up  of  him. 

He  had  been  savage,  rough,  almost  brutal,  he  had  in  a 
few  words  denied  all  his  former  conduct;  gone  his  beautiful 
equanimity,  his  grave  gentleness,  how  was  she  to  picture 
him?  If  his  imperturbable  calm  was  but  a  pose,  was  his 
violence  the  real  keynote  to  his  character? 

Was  he  only  a  savage  with  a  clever  veneer  of  civilisation  ? 
Then,  remorsefully,  she  admitted  that  she  herself  had  been 
greatly  to  blame.  Engrossed  in  her  own  misery  she  had 
barely  considered  the  possibility  of  his  suffering,  and  since 
the  day  she  had  first  seen  him  at  the  Villa  she  had  been  only 
too  glad  to  accept  the  clever  travesty  of  contentment  that  he 
presented  to  her,  as  the  real  thing.  It  was  quite  true  that 
she  had  underestimated  the  quality  of  his  love  for  her;  quite 
true  that  she  had  used  him,  as  he  had  said.  And  being 
essentially  though  not  always  logically  just,  she  soon  came 
to  the  point  of  forgiving  him  his  Slavic  outburst;  she  had, 
in  all  innocence  driven  him  beyond  his  powers  of  endurance, 
and  while  an  Englishman  would  have  been  much  milder  in 
his  outbreak,  Lensky  had,  she  realised,  only  after  many 
months  of  a  marvellous  self-control  quite  impossible  to 
ninety-nine  Englishmen  in  a  hundred,  lost  his  head  in  his 
own  way. 

Therefore  she,  who  had  brought  him  to  this  point  through 
sheer  thick-headed  stupidity,  had  no  right  to  be  angry  with 
him. 


306  PAM    DECIDES 

And  her  anger  ebbed  away,  leaving  only  a  miserable  high- 
water  mark  of  lonely  longing  for  the  friend  she  had  in 
reality  never  had.  How  dull  she  had  been !  How  foolishly 
unobservant.  And  how  almost  insultingly  ready  to  believe 
in  the  sudden  death  of  his  feeling  for  her. 

Even  the  baby  could  not  hold  at  bay  the  white-faced 
phantom  that  had  come  to  haunt  the  old  house  in  Chimes 
Lane. 

"  You  look  as  if  you'd  lost  your  last  friend,  Miss  Pam," 
Pilgrim  remarked  once,  with  all  the  acidity  of  ignorant  anx- 
iety, and  Pam  gave  a  forlorn  little  laugh.  "  I  have,  Pilly, 
dear,"  she  returned,  "  or  rather,  the  only  one  I  ever  had." 
For  now  that  he  had  gone,  she  realised  better  every  day 
what  he  had  been  to  her.  She  had  adored  her  grandfather, 
she  was  very  fond  of  the  Duchess,  and  Buzzy  Penge  was 
most  sympathetic  to  her,  but  none  of  these  people  had  been 
a  real  friend.  And  to  de  Lensky  there  had  been  nothing 
that  she  could  not  say.  There  were  none  of  the  queer,  inex- 
plicable reserves  that  blood-relationship  usually  imposes,  none 
of  the  shyness  that  frivolous  age  sometimes  awakes  in  serious 
youth,  none  of  the  superficiality  of  comprehension  contingent 
on  a  new  acquaintance,  however  sympathetic. 

In  a  word,  Lensky  had  been  to  her  someone,  and  some- 
thing, quite  undefinable  and  new.  And  now  he  was  gone 
and  she  was  alone.  One  day  she  found  in  a  book  of  quota- 
tions one  from  Jean  Paul  that,  retrospectively,  fitted  the 
case  to  piteous  perfection : — "  Thou  speakest  to  me  of  things 
which  in  all  my  endless  life  I  have  found  not,  and  shall  not 
find." 


PAM   DECIDES  307 

"  I  thought  he  was  something  that  '  in  all  my  endless  life 
I  have  found  not,  and  shall  not  find/  "  she  said,  sadly. 

So,  with  a  weary  heart  she  again  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
fighting  down  and  forgetting  an  enveloping  trouble.  It  was 
very  uphill  work,  for  this  time  she  was  not  ashamed  of  the 
feeling  that  bound  her;  her  affection  for  Lensky  was  one 
that  she  need  not  blush  for,  and  pride  failed  to  come  to  her 
aid.  She  missed  him  a  dozen  times  a  day,  for  though  she- 
had  not  seen  him  often,  the  possibility  of  doing  so  had  for- 
merly been  constant,  and  now  he  was  as  much  gone  as  if  he 
had  left  the  country. 

For  she  knew  that  having  said  good-bye  to  her  he  'would 
never  come  back.  He  had  done  what  made  a  pretence  of 
friendship  impossible,  and  would  now,  she  was  sure,  set  to 
work  to  make  the  best  of  things  as  they  stood.  Even  if  she 
should  meet  him  accidentally  there  would  be  no  backsliding. 
He  would  be  polite,  conventionally  cordial  and  friendly,  and 
at  the  first  opportunity  slip  gracefully  away  from  her.  It 
was  hopeless.  He  had  gone,  and  she  had  lost  him  for  the 
rest  of  "  her  endless  life."  At  this  period  the  baby  did  her 
best  to  enliven  the  household  by  really  producing  the  tooth 
her  godmother  had  long  expected,  and  following  closely  on 
this  event  came  another  of  a  very  different  nature. 

One  evening  as  Pam  sat  reading  in  the  White  Study, 
Cyril  Wantage  came  in  looking  very  much  distressed. 

"  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  I've  been  turfed  out  by  old 
Butterflies,"  he  declared,  at  once,  sitting  down  and  rubbing 
his  hands  before  the  fire;  "  pleasant,  isn't  it?  " 

"Oh  dear!     Butwhv?" 


3o8  PAM   DECIDES 

"  Well, — he  saw  me  kiss  his  parlour-maid." 

"Cyril!" 

"  I  know.  Disgraceful,  infra  'dig.  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing,  wasn't  it?  However,  I  enjoyed  it  and  so  did  she, 
and  really  it  wasn't  any  of  the  old  brute's  business.  He 
thought  it  necessary  to  do  the  outraged  hospitality  act,  I  lost 
my  temper — I  wish  I  could  lose  it  so  I'd  never  find  it  again 
— and  we  parted.  So  here  I  am." 

Pam  drew  a  deep  sigh.  He  had  been  doing  so  much  bet- 
ter than  she  had  ventured  to  hope;  his  wife's  death  had  so 
seemed  to  steady  him,  and  here  he  was,  scarcely  seven  months 
later,  kissing  parlour-maids. 

She  made  no  reference  to  Mary,  however,  and  sat  for 
some  time  staring  into  the  fire.  "What  are  you  going  to 
do  ?  "  she  asked,  at  last,  looking  at  him. 

"  Look  for  another  job,  I  suppose.    How's  the  baby?" 

"  Very  well.  She  has  a  tooth,"  returned  Pam,  absently. 
"  If  you  want  to  see  her,  ring,  will  you?  " 

She  was  very  unwilling  to  say  anything  that  might  savour 
of  lecturing,  but  there  was  in  his  whole  air  something  that 
displeased  her.  Having  taken  the  burden  of  his  irresponsi- 
bility on  her  shoulders  she  had  never  contemplated  shirking 
it,  but  this  weak  jauntiness  recalled  to  her  old  fears  for  him 
that  she  had  almost  forgotten. 

"Ask  Cassandra  to  bring  the  baby,  please,"  she  said  tc 
the  maid  who  answered  Wantage's  ring.  That  he  was  the 
baby's  father  bound  her  to  this  man,  too ;  she  must  continue 
to  help  him  as  much  as  she  could,  but  he  must  understand 
that  her  financial  condition  was  one  that  necessitated  strict 


PAM    DECIDES  309 

economy.  She  was  explaining  this  to  him  when  the  baby 
appeared,  and  the  new  tooth  was  proudly  displayed  by  the 
nurse,  who  appeared  to  believe  that  she  deserved  all  the 
credit  of  the  phenomenon. 

"  Jolly  big  kiddy,  isn't  she  ?  And,  I  say,  she  is  beginning 
to  look  like  my  mater!  Upon  my  word  she  is, — something 
about  the  eyes !  " 

He  took  the  baby  and  played  with  her  affectionately,  dis- 
playing much  skill  in  his  management  of  her  small  person. 
Pam  watched  them  silently.  He  was  Pammy's  father,  and 
as  such  must  be  helped,  and  kept  straight.  With  a  pang 
she  reflected  that  Ratty  Maxse's  father,  whom  she  had 
known  only  in  his  singularly  unattractive  middle  age,  must, 
at  Wantage's  age,  have  been  much  like  that  pleasant  though 
forceless  young  fellow. 

"  And  poor  old  Dick  was  so  horrible!  "  she  thought,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  I  say, — look  at  her  laugh !  Give  daddy  a  kiss.  Boo, 
what  a  wet  kiss,  nassy  baby !  " 

"  What  a  charming  domestic  picture !  " 

Wantage  turned  as  Pam  started  up  to  meet  the  Duchess, 
who,  burly  and  shapeless  in  a  fur  cloak,  had  come  in  unob- 
served. 

"  I  heard  voices  and  baby-talk,  so  I  came  in  without  being 
announced.  I  suppose  you  are  this  infant  prodigy's  father?  " 

"  I  am."  He  bowed  rather  charmingly,  the  baby  crumpled 
up  against  his  waistcoat,  and  Pam  introduced  him  to  the  old 
lady. 

"  I  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  my  dear,"  the  Duchess 


310  PAM    DECIDES 

explained,  sitting  down.  "  No,  don't  unhook  me,  I  can't 
stay — and  just  ran  in  to  say  howdy.  I've  had  a  deadly  day. 
Kenny's  house  is  being  painted,  as  I  told  you,  and  she  and 
Jim  are  with  me.  They  do  bore  me  so — together.  I  enjoy 
both  of  'em  when  the  other  isn't  there;  isn't  it  unfortunate? 
And  James'  private  secretary  has  left  very  suddenly,  and  a 
stream  of  horribly  '  gentlemany '  young  men  have  been  com- 
ing since  dawn,  for  him  to  choose  from, — it  has  been  awful !  " 

"  I  hope  he  got  a  good  one,"  returned  Pam,  absently, 
abstracting  from  the  baby's  mouth  the  penwiper  that  lady 
was  slily  tasting. 

"  No,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  He  writes  such  a  vile  hand 
and  loathes  a  typewriter, — none  of  'em  wrote  well  enough 
to  suit  him,  so  they've  all  gone  their  weary  ways,  and  the 
great  post  is  still  unfilled." 

"  Is  that  Mr.  Peele,  Duchess,  may  I  ask,"  inquired  Wan- 
tage, with  civil  interest.  "  I  remember  meeting  him  years 
ago,  with  poor  old  Charnley  Burke." 

"  Yes.  He  married  my  daughter.  Your  baby  is  a  very 
pleasant  person,  Mr.  Wantage;  you  must  be  proud  of  her." 
As  she  spoke,  the  old  lady  rose.  "  Well,  good-bye,  Pam, 
come  and  see  me  next  week, — they  leave  to-morrow.  Henny 
nas  been  ill  again;  I'm  sure  it's  her  appendix,  but  she  says 
it  »sn't,  and  I  suppose  she  ought  to  know.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Wantage ' ' 

Pam  went  with  her  to  the  door,  and  then  went  back  to 
the  Study.  She  was  grateful  to  Cyril  for  not,  as  she  had 
for  a  moiirent  feared  he  intended  doing,  proposing  himself 
for  the  vacant  secretaryship. 


PAM    DECIDES  311 

I  am  sorry  that  you  have  lost  your  position,"  she  said, 
as  he  smiled  up  from  the  rug  where  in  the  character  of  some 
strange  wild  beast  he  was  growling  and  gambolling  for  the 
baby ;  "  let's  send  her  upstairs  and  get  some  newspapers  and 
try  to  find  something  that  might  suit  you," 


CHAPTER   XIII 

TWO  days  later  Pam  received  a  letter  from  James  Peele 
postmarked  Torpington.  She  was  sitting  in  the  nursery 
when  it  was  brought  to  her,  and  for  several  minutes  sat 
staring  at  the  address  while  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face 
with  a  heat  that  almost  burnt  her. 

He  had  broken  his  promise,  then,  and  after  all  the  strug- 
gles she  should  have  to  begin  over  again.  And  she  had  no 
Lensky  to  whom  to  turn  for  strength. 

She  felt  herself  so  helpless,  so  alone,  that  she  thought  with 
a  shiver,  "  If  he  insists  on  seeing  me — if  he  breaks  his  word 
and  comes,  and  I  see  him — can  I  be  brave  and  send  him 
away?"  A  quick  memory  of  Dorothy  Fane  came  to  her, 
too,  as  she  sat  in  the  quiet  room  near  the  sleeping  child. 
Lady  Freddy  had  been  strong  only  to  be  horribly,  humili- 
atingly  weak  afterwards.  She  believed  that  if  she  had  not 
been  so  strong  she  would  have  been  happier! 

And  if  Peele  came, — if,  in  his  quality  of  master,  he  came 
to  her  now,  after  her  years  of  brave  struggle,  should  she  not 
do  better  to  yield  to  him?  To  let  him  love  her,  and  to  let 
herself  love  him?  For  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes,  and 
remembered  the  feel  of  his  arms  roun-d  her,  the  touch  of  his 
lips  on  hers,  and  then  with  a  fierce  frown  and  shake  of  her 
head,  came  to  her  senses. 

"  Fool !  "  she  called  herself,  angrily,  "  I  am  a  fool,  and  he 
is  a  knave.  But  I  must  read  his  letter  and  know  how  to 
meet  his  attack  1 " 

312 


PAM   DECIDES  313 

The  letter  ran  as  follows: 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  YEOLAND, — 

"  You  will,  I  am  sure,  excuse  my  writing  to  you  on  a 
matter  of  business.  I  am  in  search  of  a  private  secretary, 
and  among  some  twenty  young  men  who  have  come  to  me 
to  offer  themselves  for  the  position,  the  one  I  best  like  is 
Cyril  Wantage.  I  met  him  once  years  ago  with  poor  Burke, 
but  I  know  nothing  of  his  character  except  what  he  himself 
tells  me.  He  writes  a  good  hand,  which  is  very  important 
for  me,  and  as  he  tells  me  that  you  are  personally  interested 
in  his  welfare,  I  should  be  doubly  glad  to  employ  him.  He 
begged  me  not  to  mention  his  application  to  you,  but  I  am 
hoping  that  you  will  confirm  his  statements,  and  that  you 
will  be  pleased  by  my  giving  him  easy  and  well-paid 
employment.  Trusting  that  you  are  well  and  happy,  I  am, 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"JAMES  PEELE." 

Pam  rose  and  went  into  her  room,  instinctively  taking  her 
anger  with  Wantage  away  from  his  child's  bedside.  It  was 
abominable,  outrageous,  of  him  to  have  done  this  thing;  to 
have  used  her  name  as  a  means  of  currying  favour  with 
Peele.  And  how  artfully  he  had  concealed  his  design  from 
her,  letting  her  make  a  list  of  advertisements  for  him  to 
answer,  and  trying  to  persuade  Peele  not  to  tell  her  of  his 
application. 

That  Peele  had  written  to  her  was,  she  admitted,  excusa- 
ble, and  his  letter  was,  in  itself,  faultless.  Even  if  he  had 
not  wished  to  please  her  by  helping  her  protege,  as  Wantage 


3 14  PAM   DECIDES 

had  obviously  declared  himself  to  be,  it  was  most  natural 
that  he  should  write  to  her  for  references.  And  that  she 
held  in  her  hand  the  success  or  the  failure  of  Wantage's  sly 
scheming,  made  matters  only  worse. 

Should  she  write  and  refuse  to  recommend  the  baby's 
father  for  this  delightful  post?  Should  she,  by  refusing  to 
help  him,  be  the  first  to  push  him  into  the  downward  path 
for  which  his  indolent  feet  were  so  evidently  bound?  Or 
should  she  assist  him  by  using,  even  thus  indirectly,  her  influ- 
ence over  Peele? 

After  an  hour's  brooding  thought  she  wrote  and  sent  off 
the  following  letter: 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  PEELE, — 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  Mr.  Wantage  was  going  to  apply  for 
the  position  of  your  secretary,  but  if  he  pleases  you,  can  see 
no  reason  why  you  should  not  engage  him. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  PAMELA  YEOLAND." 

This  matter  disposed  of,  she  lay  down  on  the  divan  in  the 
White  Study,  and  went  to  sleep.  Dreams  so  rarely  have 
any  perceptible  bearing  on  the  thoughts  occupying  the  mind 
of  the  dreamer,  it  was  rather  remarkable  that  Pam  should 
dream  of  Peele,  but  so  it  was. 

She  was  standing  by  the  fountain  at  Hinchingly,  with 
Lady  Freddy,  who  told  her,  as  they  stood  in  the  sun,  of  her 
engagement  to  Jack  Lensky,  Pam,  to  her  own  great  sur- 
prise, was  anything  but  pleased  by  the  news,  and  was  silent, 
wondering  why  she  felt  so  sorry.  It  was  a  great  depth  of 


PAM   DECIDES  315 

loneliness  into  which  she  seemed  to  have  sunk,  and  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  "  Can  I  be  jealous?  "  she  asked  herself, 
angrily  incredulous,  and  with  bitter  shame  she  was  obliged 
to  admit  that  she  was. 

Lensky,  then,  had  at  last  really  forgotten  her,  and  no 
longer  loved  her.  She  could  never  again  make  him  beside 
himself  with  fury  as  he  had  been  that  day  in  the  Cloisters  of 
the  Abbey;  it  was  no  longer  in  her  power  to  bring  to  his 
tranquil  face  those  anguished,  terrifying  lines  that  she  had 
seen  there.  He  would  now  meet  her  with  pleasant,  super- 
ficial amiability,  would  neither  seek  nor  shun  her;  her  day 
was  done,  and  Dorothy  Fane's  begun. 

Then,  still  in  the  blazing  summer  sun,  Lady  Freddy  left 
her.  "  I  am  going  to  meet  him,"  she  said,  and  walked  away 
towards  the  house.  Pam  stood  still,  a  tempest  of  anger  and 
pain  in  her  heart,  and  watched  a  man  rapidly  crossing  the 
lawn  toward  Lady  Freddy. 

It  was  Lamartine,  as  she  had  first  seen  him,  that  day  in 
the  fog,  two  years  before;  the  exquisite,  dandified  Lamartine 
in  the  glossy  top-hat,  with  a  white  flovv  :r  in  his  coat.  And 
he  was  going  straight  to  Lady  Freddy,  without  a  look  for 
Pam,  who  wanted  him  so  miserably.  Forgetting  all  shame 
in  her  loneliness,  she  stretched  out  her  arms  and  cried,  "  Oh, 
look  at  me,  look !  " 

And  then  he  turned,  but  he  was  James  Peele  now,  and 
with  a  low  cry  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  as  he 
had  kissed  her  in  the  Oak  Hall. 

And  she  woke,  shaking  and  pulsing  with  exquisite  pain, 
blushing  with  horror  over  her  unworthy  rapture,  hating 


316  PAM    DECIDES 

herself  for  her  dream.  It  was  Jack  she  had  wanted, — her 
old  Jack  whom  she  had  believed  her  friend,  and  it  was 
Peele  who  came,  Peele  whom  she  hated  and  dreaded,  and 
whom  she  loved. 

For  several  minutes  she  sat  on  the  red  divan,  seeing  again 
the  stern,  nervous,  emotion-shaken  face  she  had  so  tried  to 
forget.  She  had  feared  the  sight  of  his  face,  and  avoided  it 
manfully,  and  now  to  crown  all  her  troubles  it  had  come 
to  her  in  this  dream  with  the  most  appalling  distinctness. 
Would  it  always  stay  there,  before  her  eyes? 

Her  recent  obsession,  Lensky's  changed  face,  disappeared 
entirely  under  this  new  one,  and  seemed,  as  she  looked  back 
on  it,  as  a  very  minor  affliction. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  going  crazy,"  she  almost  moaned.  "  I'm 
certainly  losing  my  nerve." 

But  the  next  day  an  unexpected  visit  raised  her  danger- 
ously fluctuating  spirits, — Sidney  Blythe,  come  to  show  her 
his  new  hair. 

"Can  you  see  it?"  he  inquired,  bending  down  into  the 
firelight.  "  If  you  can't,"  he  added,  accommodatingly,  "  you 
may  feel  it!  " 

Pam  laughed.  "  Thanks,  but  it's  perfectly  visible  to  my 
penetrating  eye!  It's  most  becoming.  You  don't  think  it's 
going  to  be  red,  do  you?" 

"  Red  ?  "  he  shrieked.  "  Red !  Nonsense.  It  was  always 
light-brown,  why  should  it  be  red?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ;  no  doubt  it  was  the  firelight — and 
when  is  the  wedding  to  be?  " 

"  In  February."     He  was  suddenly  serious,  his  pleasant 


PAM    DECIDES  317 

face  gaming  greatly  as  he  spoke.  "  Poor  Buzzy,  it  was  hard 
on  her,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  And  on  you.  But — even  if  it  hadn't  grown,  she'd  have 
married  you  in  the  end,"  answered  Pam,  gently. 

"  Yes,  she  would.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  promised 
a  week  before  there  was  a  sign  of  a  hair  to  be  seen.  She 
sent  you  her  love,  by  the  way,  and  says  she  would  have  come 
to  see  you,  only  Dolly  is  not  well." 

"Dolly  isn't  ill,  I  hope!" 

He  hesitated.  "  No, — but  she  is  not  well,  either.  Fane 
is  an  awful  brute,  but — I  imagine  she  still  cares  for  him,  and 
he's  going  to  marry  again." 

"Poor  Dolly!" 

"  Yes.  I  am  very  fond  of  her,  and  I  know  you  are,  too, 
but — she  hasn't  Patricia's  character." 

"  Patricia  never  was  put  to  her  tests,"  suggested  Pam, 
mildly. 

"  Of  course  not.  I  only  meant  that  it  would  have  been 
better  if  Dorothy  had  either  stuck  to  Fane  or  stopped  both- 
ering about  him  when  she  had  once  got  rid  of  him." 

Pam  burst  out  laughing.  "  Oh,  most  wise  judge !  How- 
ever— I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it  would  have  been  better 
for  her." 

Blythe  rose.  "  I  must  be  off.  Glad  to  have  found  you. 
How's  the  baby,  by  the  way?  " 

"  Well,  thanks.  Good-bye.  Give  my  love  to  all  the 
Penges,  including  the  Earl  of  Fauntleroy  Penge.  And  I 
am  so  glad  about  your  hair.  Good  gracious,"  she  added, 
looking  at  him  closely,  "  your  eyelashes !  " 


318  PAM    DECIDES 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  the  wretched  things  are  shrinking 
visibly.  It  is  a  blessing,  I  can  tell  you.  People  used  to  turn 
and  stare  at  me  in  the  street,  and  now  I  get  no  more  atten- 
tion than  any  other  young  Greek  god !  " 

"  But  oh,  the  beautiful  lashes !  Well,  if  you're  glad,  I'm 
glad.  Good-bye." 

At  last  Buzzy  was  going  to  be  happy.  Pam  had  borne 
her  many  troubles  with  a  sort  of  unconscious  stoicism,  but 
now  she  felt  very  tired  and  discouraged,  and  her  dream  had 
still  further  depressed  her.  For  she  realised  even  more 
strongly  than  before  that  if  chance  should  bring  her  face  to 
face  with  James  Peele  she  could  never  again  have  a  peaceful 
minute. 

He  had  promised  not  to  see  her,  and  he  had  kept,  and 
would  no  doubt  continue  keeping,  his  word,  but  at  best  she 
was  trusting  to  chance,  and  might  at  any  moment  be  be- 
trayed by  that  capricious  goddess.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it 
would  be  best  to  rent  her  house, — her  beloved  house  that  of 
late  had  given  her  so  little  joy — and  go  to  live  somewhere  on 
the  Continent.  The  one  thing  in  the  world  that  seemed  to 
her  absolutely  necessary  was  that  she  should  be  safe  from 
the  danger  of  ever  meeting  Peele.  And  perhaps  bravery, 
for  her,  lay  in  flight,  as  it  had  lain  for  greater  and  better 
people  before  her. 

With  a  deep  sigh  she  went  upstairs  and  put  on  a  hat  and 
-  warm  coat,  for  it  was  a  bitterly  cold  day. 

"  I'm  going  out  for  a  tramp,  Pilly  dear,"  she  told  the  old 
woman,  whom  she  met  on  the  stairs ;  "  I  have  a  grand  plan 
in  my  head,  which  I  will  tell  you  when  I  come  back." 


PAM   DECIDES  319 

"Oh  dear,  Pam, — no  more  travelling,  I  'ope?  I'm  that 
tired  of  rushing  about  the  world!  I'm  getting  old,  I  sup- 
pose." Pilgrim  looked  indeed  old  and  tired,  and  Pam's 
heart  smote  her.  "If  we  do  make  a  move  it  will  be  a 
final  one,"  she  said,  gently;  "I'm  not  so  young  as  I  used  to 
be,  myself — good-bye." 

As  she  opened  the  house-door  she  nearly  ran  into  a  man 
who  was  about  to  ring.  "  Oh,  Miss  Yeoland,  I  beg  your 
pardon " 

He  wore  the  Duchess's  dark-blue  livery,  Pam  saw,  and 
looked  very  much  agitated.  "Is  anything  wrong?"  she 
asked,  nervously.  "  Her  Grace " 

"  No,  Miss,  there's  nothing  wrong;  with  'er  Grace, 'that 
is,  Miss,  but  Lady  'Enrietta  died  yesterday,  Miss.  And  'Er 
Grace  is — very  much  broken  by  the  news " 

"  Lady  Henrietta !  Dead !  "  Pam  leaned  against  her 
house-door  and  felt  the  stone  step  under  her  sway  like  a 
boat. 

"Yes,  Miss.  It  was  very  suddent;  'er  Ladyship  went 
back  to  the  country  three  days  ago  and  Mr.  Peele  'e  went 
back — followed  her — the  day  before  yesterday,  and  was  com- 
ing back  to  Berkeley  Square  yesterday.  Instead  of  which, 
Miss,  'e  wired  to  say  'er  Ladyship  'ad  died  suddently.  'Er 
Grace  has  been  very  bad,  and  to-day  Mrs.  Williamson  sug- 
gested we  should  fetch  you,  Miss." 

The  stone  step  ceased  rocking  and  the  smoke-blackened 
wall  opposite  was  once  more  a  solid  body. 

"  Call  a  hansom  for  me,  will  you  ?  "  she  ordered  the  man, 
and  a  minute  later  was  hurrying  towards  Berkeley  Square. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

AT  the  station  at  Torpington  the  Duchess  was  met  by  her 
nephew,  the  young  Duke,  and  taken  to  Peek's  house,  while 
Pam  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  tall  man,  in  a  grey  pony  overcoat. 

"  My  name  is  Baring-Smythe,  Miss  Yeoland,  and  as  we 
are  poor  Peele's  nearest  neighbours,  we  are  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  putting  you  up.  My  wife  sent  me  to  meet  you." 

Pam  murmured  a  few  words  of  conventional  thanks,  and 
followed  her  companion  through  the  dingy  waiting-room  to 
his  carriage. 

"The  old  lady  has  been  ill,  hasn't  she?"  Mr.  Baring- 
Smythe  asked,  as  they  stepped  into  the  victoria  and  he 
wrapped  her  in  a  fur-lined  rug. 

"  Yes.  I  thought  the  day  before  yesterday  that  she  would 
not  be  able  to  come.  She  had  a  serious  operation  on  her  eyes 
a  year  ago, — iridectomy,  they  call  it — and  she  has  not  been 
very  strong  ever  since.  And — Lady  Henrietta's  death  was 
so  frightfully  sudden." 

"  Awf'ly  sudden,  poor  lady.  My  wife  saw  her  the  day 
she  came  down,  and  she  seemed  all  right.  They  say  it  was 
appendicitis — she  wired  Peele  and  he  brought  Biddulph,  who 
operated,  but  it  was  too  late.  Awful  thing,  awful." 

Mr.  Baring-Smythe  had  a  loud,  rather  deep  voice  that 
seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  Pam,  but  she  could  not  place  it. 
And  his  talk  went  on  in  a  well-meant  flow,  as  the  carriage 

320 


PAM   DECIDES  321 

made  its  way  through  the  town.  "  Rotten  little  place,  Tor- 
pington;  my  wife  says  she  can't  even  get  a  reel  of  cotton 
in  it, — but  they  always  say  that,"  he  added,  humorously; 
"helps  'em  to  get  up  to  town  oftener!  That's  the  post- 
office, — and  that's  the  Methodist  Chapel.  Hope  you're  not 
cold?  My  wife  thought  the  fresh  air  would  do  you  good, 
or  I'd  have  come  in  a  brougham.  I  wanted  to  drive  you 
out  myself,  but  she  wouldn't  let  me.  Thought  a  victoria 
more  comfortable  for  you  after  your  journey." 

Pam  hardly  listened  to  him.  She  was  watching  the  streets 
they  passed  through,  remembering  some  of  them,  recalling 
days  long  ago  when  she  had  walked  in  them,  days  when  she 
was  seventeen. 

There  is,  of  course,  always,  even  to  very  happy  people, 
a  certain  gentle  melancholy  in  going  back  to  a  place  where 
one  dreamed  the  dreams,  hoped  the  hopes,  of  his  early  youth, 
and  to  Pam,  brought  back  here  by  a  serried  force  of  uncon- 
querable circumstances,  a  fresh  pang  lay  in  every  house, 
every  turning  that  she  recognised. 

The  afternoon  was  clear  though  cold,  and  the  low  sky 
yet  an  hour  from  dusk. 

"  The  Duke  came  yesterday,  I  believe,"  went  on  Mr. 
Baring-Smythe,  at  the  end  of  a  long  period  of  vague  prattle ; 
"nice  chap,  and  very  fond  of  Peele.  You  know  Peele,  of 
course  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Pam,  almost  impatiently.  For  the  car- 
riage had  come  out  on  the  road  she  had  travelled  one  early 
spring  day  twelve  years  ago,  when,  all  unconsciously,  she  had 
taken  the  turning  that  led  her  to  James  Peele.  And  now,  in 


322  PAM    DECIDES 

this  dumbly  unwilling,  protesting  way,  she  was  going  ovei 
the  same  road. 

'"  Nice  fellow,  isn't  he?" 

"  Oh  yes,  very." 

"  And  she,  poor  Lady  Henrietta,  was  delightful.  My 
wife  liked  her  immensely,  though  they  of  course  had  very 
little  in  common, — Lady  Henrietta  being  so  smart,  and  all 
that,  and  Augusta  just — a  country  bumpkin's  wife !  I  always 
say  we  are  only  country  bumpkins, — living  all  the  year 
round  in  the  country,  and  going  to  town  only  for  an  occa- 
sional visit." 

The  road  had  now  crept  to  the  top  of  the  gradual  hill, 
and  stretched  straight  ahead,  between  lightly  frosted  fields. 
Against  the  sky-line,  a  clump  of  trees  and  a  chimney ;  Peele's 
house. 

Pam  shivered.  So,  after  all,  her  struggles  had  been  in 
vain.  Fate's  great  hand  had  taken  her  in  its  mighty  grasp 
and  led  her  hither. 

"  Shall  I  marry  him? "  she  asked  herself,  miserably;  "  shall 
1  have  the  strength  to  refuse  ?  " 

"  That's  poor  Peele's  place.  Oak  Barns,  my  little  place, 
is  just  beyond  the  turning  there,  to  the  right.  Ah,  there's 
Peele's  carriage  with  the  Duchess,  just  going  in, — these  nags 
of  mine  aren't  so  bad,  after  all,  are  they?  The  Duchess  had 
at  least  three  and  a  half  minutes'  start  of  us " 

Oak  Banns  was  a  modern,  villa-like  house  with  a  fine 
wide  hall,  in  which,  waiting  to  receive  her  guest,  Mrs. 
Baring-Smythe  was  standing. 

She  was  a  red-faced  woman  with  a  sensible  figure,  and 


PAM    DECIDES  323 

large,  red  hands.  She  wore  a  grey  dress  trimmed  with  black 
lace,  and  an  amethyst  cross  on  a  chain  round  her  neck. 

Obviously  embarrassed,  this  lady  murmured  some  kind  of 
a  greeting  to  Pam  and  then  hurried  her  up  the  stairs. 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  like  some  tea  and  a  nap,"  she  said,  cor- 
dially, but  in  an  evident  hurry,  opening  a  door  and  ushering 
the  girl  into  a  pleasant  room;  "  it's  only  four,  and  we  don't 
dine  until  half-past  seven,  so  you'll  have  plenty  of  time  for 
a  good  rest." 

And  Pam  obediently  drank  her  tea  and  lay  down  on  a 
very  slippery  sofa.  To  sleep  was  another  matter.  She  had 
had  but  little  rest  the  last  two  nights,  for  the  Duchess,  utterly 
broken  down  by  the  shock  of  her  daughter's  death,  had  clung 
to  her  piteously,  asking  for  her  every  time  she  left  the  room, 
reproaching  her  for  every  movement  she  made.  So  Pam 
had  sat  by  the  bed  where  the  poor  old  woman  lay,  and 
counted  the  long  hours  as  the  clock  on  the  stairs  struck. 
Lady  Henrietta's  sister,  Lady  Maria  O'Reilly,  had  come 
direct  to  Torpington,  and  there  was  no  one  to  help  the 
Duchess  get  to  where  her  dead  daughter  lay,  except  Pam. 
"  You  will  come  with  me,  dear, — for  Oswald's  sake,"  she 
had  said,  and  Pam,  after  a  moment's  fierce  inward  struggle, 
had  quietly  assented. 

So  here  she  was  in  this  strange  house,  and  to-morrow  she 
must  go  to  the  funeral.  "  Das  Ende  von  Lied,"  kept  going 
through  her  tired  brain,  "  The  End  of  the  Song."  She  had 
fought,  she  had  struggled,  and  now  she  was  beaten,  con- 
quered by  force  majeure.  That  Peele  would  want  her  to 
marry  him  she  knew,  and  she  doubted  her  force  to  resist  him. 


324  PAM   DECIDES 

But  she  also  knew  that  she  could  not  be  happy  as  his  wife. 
He  had  proved  himself  a  weakling,  the  unfulfilled  promises 
of  his  youth  lay  behind  him;  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be 
beaten  in  the  race;  he  had  failed.  And  nof,  she  knew, 
because  of  his  weak  heart,  but  because  of  some  inherent 
weakness  in  his  nature.  "  Just  a  common  rush  of  pros- 
perity to  the  head,"  she  told  herself,  with  a  dreary  laugh, 
as  she  lay  on  worthy  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe's  unyielding  sofa, 
watching  the  firelight  play  on  the  gay  chintz  curtains.  "  And 
he  is  not  even  good.  He  would  have  made  me  bad  if  I  had 
let  him.  And  yet — when  he  looks  at  me — as  he  used  to — • 
what  if  I  couldn't  say  no?  I'd  love  him  and  despise  him  all 
at  once,  and  be  miserable  the  rest  of  my  days.  Oh,  well, 
I'll  be  miserable  if  I  don't  marry  him,  so  what  does  it 
matter?  " 

Dinner  was  a  solemn  meal,  and  Pam  was  so  sleepy  that  she 
could  hardly  keep  awake. 

Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  belonged  to  the  order  of  ladies  whose 
idea  of  hospitable  civility  consists  in  the  asking  of  numerous 
personal  questions — "  to  show  interest."  Pam  answered 
these  questions  mechanically,  and  swallowed  her  yawns  with 
her  food. 

Yes,  the  Duchess  was  better  to-day.  Yes,  Pam  had  known 
the  Duchess  nearly  all  her  life.  No,  she  didn't  know  the 
Duke.  Yes,  she  knew  Mr.  Peele.  Yes,  she  found  him 
charming.  Yes,  it  was  a  terrible  tragedy.  Yes,  she  lived 
in  London.  In  Westminster.  Yes,  her  father  was  alive. 
So  was  her  mother.  In  Japan.  No,  they  never  came  to 
England.  No,  she  had  no  sisters.  No,  she  didn't  miss  those 


PAM    DECIDES  325 

sisters  she  had  never  had.  No,  she  would  not  have  any  more 
game,  thanks. 

And  so  on,  and  so  on,  while  Mr.  Baring-Smythe  beamed, 
and  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  enquired. 

Yes,  she  was  to  go  to  the  funeral,  of  course.  No,  the 
Duchess  was  going  with  Lady  Maria  O'Reilly,  her  other 
daughter,  and  Lady  Maria's  daughter.  Yes,  Pam  would  go 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe,  please 

At  last  Pam  found  herself  in  bed,  and  fell  asleep  almost 
at  once. 


CHAPTER   XV 

"HER  GRACE  would  like  to  see  you.Miss,"  whispered  the 
Duchess's  maid,  as  Pam  followed  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  into 
the  house  of  mourning  the  next  day.  Up  the  metamor- 
phosed stairs  the  girl  crept  quietly,  vaguely  glad  that  the  old 
place  had  been  improved  out  of  recognition,  and  through  the 
picture-gallery  where  Peele  had  once  shown  her  a  picture  he 
loved.  It  was  early,  for  she  had  known  that  the  Duchess 
would  wish  to  see  her  before  they  started  for  the  Church. 

"  How  is  Her  Grace,  Honeywell  ?  " 

"  Very  calm,  Miss,  thank  you,  and  she  slept  better  last 
night,  thank  you." 

There  was  an  overpowering  scent  of  flowers  even  in  these 
upper  rooms;  Pam  felt  giddy  and  half  sick. 

When  she  reached  the  Duchess's  room  she  found  the  old 
woman  sitting  before  her  dressing-table,  staring  blankly  at 
her  own  image  in  the  glass.  "  How  are  you,  my  dear?  I 
am  better,  thank  you,  but — and  I  want  you  to  see  her. 
Come." 

Pam  had  braced  herself  for  all  sorts  of  trials  that  day, 
but  this  was  an  unexpected  one.  "  Do  you — do  you  think 
Mr.  Peele  would  like  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nonsense !  And  she  was  fond  of  you  years  ago,  and 
only  the  other  day  she  said  that  the  next  time  she  was  in 
town  she  was  going  to  see  you.  Come." 

Without  a  word,  Pam  followed  the  Duchess  into  Lady 

326 


PAM    DECIDES  327 

Henrietta's  morning-room,  where  the  coffin  stood.  "  He 
will  come, — I  shall  see  him  now,"  the  girl  thought,  stiffening 
her  muscles  and  preparing  for  the  dreaded  instant ;  "  I  w ill 
be  strong."  But  he  did  not  come,  and  she  stood  looking 
down  at  the  dead  face  of  the  woman  she  had  doubtlessly, 
though  involuntarily,  robbed  of  her  happiness.  ''  If  he 
hadn't  loved  me,  he  must  have  loved  you,"  she  thought. 

Lady  Henrietta  Shanklin  had  been  in  her  youth  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  women  in  Europe,  and  now,  in  her 
coffin,  a  certain  air  of  that  youth  seemed  to  have  come  back 
to  her,  so  that  to  Pam,  who  had  not  seen  her  for  many 
years,  she  looked  but  little  changed  since  the  old  days. 

"  Isn't  she  exquisite  ?  "  whispered  the  Duchess,  wiping 
her  eyes.  "  And  to  think  that  her  beauty  could  not  bring 
her  happiness ! " 

Pam's  throat  contracted.  She  was  ashamed.  All  these 
days  she  had  thought  only  of  herself  and  of  Peele.  Now 
the  other  side  of  the  shield  was  presented  to  her,  and  she 
realised  in  a  flash  what  the  life  of  the  other  woman  had 
been. 

She  turned  away  while  the  Duchess  looked  her  last  at 
her  girl,  and  then,  one  arm  round  the  old  woman's  shoulders, 
she  led  her  back  to  the  room  where  Honeywell  was  waiting 
to  put  on  her  bonnet. 

"  I — I  will  go  down  now,"  said  Pam,  kissing  the  poor 
old  suddenly  thin  face  under  its  cloud  of  crape,  "  and — I 
must  go  back  by  the  five  o'clock  train." 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  Oswald 
would  be  glad,  if  he  knew, — perhaps  he  does,"  she  added, 


328  PAM   DECIDES 

with  one  of  the  pathetically  absurd  flashes  of  piety  that  come 
to  the  religionless  in  times  of  affliction. 

"  Yes.  And — you  are  really  going  to  Ireland  to-morrow?  " 

"  Maria  says  I  must ;  I'd  much  rather  go  to  Berkeley 
Square,  but  she  says  it  would  be  bad  for  me " 

"  Then, — good-bye,  dearest  Duchess.  Please  write  to  me 
and  let  me  know  how  you  are — and  when  you  are  coming 
back." 

The  old  woman  promised,  crying  weakly  as  she  clung  to 
the  girl,  and  at  last  Pam  was  able  to  get  away,  and  return 
to  the  darkened  drawing-room,  which  was  half  full  of  black 
figures. 

"  How  »  she?"  whispered  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe,  huskily. 
Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  was  weeping,  as  was  quite  proper,  and 
her  crape  smelt  strongly  of  dye. 

The  slow  minutes  passed,  a  clock  struck, — too  loud  in  the 
oppressive  stillness.  And  then  in  the  hall,  footsteps  and  low 
voices  were  heard.  Someone  blew  his  nose  shamelessly,  the 
house-door  was  opened.  The  coffin  was  coming.  Pam 
stood  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  as  the  shuffling  feet 
descended  the  stairs.  He,  she  knew,  was  close  behind  the 
heavy  burden  that  had  been  slim  Henrietta  Peele.  And 
though  she  would  not  look  up  she  could  see  him,  correct, 
grave,  all  black  but  his  white  face.  She  heard  his  footsteps 
now,  and  once  or  twice,  on  his  way  to  the  door,  they  paused, 
as  someone  shook  hands  with  him.  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe 
sobbed  convulsively,  "  Poor  fellow,  just  look  at  him!  "  But 
Pam  did  not  look;  her  eyes  were  closed  as  he  went  out  of 
the  door. 


PAM    DECIDES  329 

Other  footsteps  followed, — 'the  Duchess,  a  huge,  unwieldy 
black  packet,  dragged  along  by  the  young  Duke,  the 
O'Reillys,  a  cousin  of  Peele's,  and  others  whom  Pam  did  not 
know.  Wreaths  and  flowers  followed,  apparently  an  end- 
less flow  of  odiously  strong-scented  flowers.  Oh,  for  some 
air! 

Outside,  on  the  frozen  gravel,  restless  horses  stamped,  and 
slow  wheels  crunched.  The  hearse  and  the  first  carriages 
had  started.  Henrietta  Peele  had  left  her  house,  and  made 
way — Pam  hated  Peele,  and  she  hated  herself.  She  would 
run  away  to  the  Continent  and  hide  forever — she  would 

Following  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  into  her  carriage,  she 
frowned  so  ferociously  that  Baring-Smythe,  whose  spirits 
had  risen  at  finding  himself  again,  so  to  speak,  under  his 
own  roof,  feared  that  he  had  looked  too  cheerful,  and  apol- 
ogised. 

"  I'm  so  infernally  sensitive, — felt  as  if  I'd  die  in  there, 

you  know Come  along,  Wilfred,  you're  to  go  with  us." 

A  young  man  with  staring  aquamarine  eyes  took  his  place 
opposite  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe,  and  was  introduced  to  Pam 
by  that  lady  between  her  loud  sniffs. 

"  George,  give  me  that  extra  handkerchief,  please, — Miae 
Yeoland,  Mr.  Belford,  my  nephew." 

Mr.  Belford  seemed  oppressed  by  a  desire  to  whistle,  his 
red  lips  constantly  puckering  and  then  convulsively  straight- 
ening under  his  vis-a-vis'  stern  eye. 

"  Poor  Peele!  I  never  was  so  sorry  for  anyone  in  my  life," 
remarked  Mr.  Baring-Smythe,  and  Pam  knew  instinctively 
that  he  made  the  same  remark  about  the  chief  survivor  &: 


330  PAM   DECIDES 

every  funeral  to  which  he  went.  ("  Looks  much  broken, 
don't  you  think,  Wilfred  ?  " 

"  Oh,  awfully.  She  must  have  been  a  st — a  great  beauty 
when  she  was  young." 

"  It's  the  poor  little  boy  /  think  about,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Baring-Smythe.  "  So  young,  and  motherless!  " 

It  was  one  consolation  to  Pam  that  she  felt  no  joy  in  the 
prospect  of  seeing  Peele.  She  knew  that  her  powers  of 
resistance  were  about  over,  that  when  she  saw  him  she  could 
fight  no  longer,  but  at  least  she  was  not  base  enough  to  re- 
joice in  his  freedom.  She  feared,  she  dreaded  him,  she 
scorned  her  own  weakness  with  a  healthy  scorn,  and  even 
while  she  recognised  her  own  weakness  she  was  bracing  her- 
self for  a  final  struggle. 

During  the  drive  to  the  Church  she  sat  thinking,  thinking, 
trying  to  make  some  plan  for  the  immediate  future.  If, 
when  she  saw  him,  she  was  obliged  to  lay  down  her  arms, 
should  she  do  the  conventional  thing  and  go  away  some- 
where, waiting  for  him  to  seek  her  out  when  the  time  had 
come?  Or  should  she  stay  on  in  Westminster?  Or — 
which  of  the  two  would  be  the  conventional  thing? 

Her  head  swam.  She  could  no  longer  think,  and  things 
seemed  to  have  been  definitely  taken  out  of  her  hands.  If 
only  she  had  de  Lensky  to  turn  to,  but  she  had  lost  him. 
She  was  alone.  Feeling  as  though  she  must  faint,  she  fol- 
lowed Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  out  of  the  carriage  at  the  church- 
yard gate  and  stood  with  downcast  eyes  while  the  Vicar 
said,  very  simply,  the  most  beautiful  words  of  hope  ever 


PAM    DECIDES  331 

written.  "  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the 
Lord — and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  Me  shall  never 

!•  » 

In  front  of  her,  close  to  the  coffin,  stood  Peele,  she  knew, 
but  she  did  not  look  at  him.  What  if,  as  she  did  so,  a  shame- 
ful happiness  should  come  to  her? 

For  the  next  few  minutes  the  girl  was  hardly  conscious 
of  her  surroundings,  and  then,  as  the  crowd  poured  out  of 
the  church  into  the  church-yard,  she  caught  Baring-Smythe's 
eye  and  pressed  her  dry  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  to  hide 
the  smile  she  could  not  repress.  For  she  recognised  him, 
and  knew  that  this  pompous,  worthy,  country  gentleman  was 
none  other  than  the  Englishman  whose  exclamation  to  his 
cheerfully  disreputable  French  companion  had  that  evening 
at  Monte  Carlo  warned  her  of  James  Peele's  presence ! 

How  funny,  how  absurd  it  was.  What  if  she  should 
whisper  to  him,  now,  as  he  stood  with  his  hat  pressed  to  his 
chest  by  the  grave-side,  "  How  is  Fernande?" 

"Yet,  O  Lord  God  most  holy,  O  Lord  most  mighty, 
O  holy  and  most  merciful  Saviour,  deliver  us  not  unto 
the  bitter  pangs  of  eternal  death.  Thou  knowest,  Lord, 

the  secrets  of  our  hearts "  Pam  started.  The  secrets 

of  our  hearts.  What  if,  suddenly,  all  these  people  should 
know  the  secret  of  hers, — of  that  man's  standing  she  knew 
in  the  correct  attitude  of  manfully  borne  affliction?  And 
then,  quite  quietly,  she  realised  that  she  must  marry  Peele. 
That  she  could  no  longer  struggle.  That  Death  itself  had 
conquered  her.  "  I  shall  be  unhappy,"  she  told  herself,  "  and 


332  PAM   DECIDES 

ashamed  of  him,  and  ashamed  of  loving  him,  but  he  will 
make  me  marry  him.  And  I  shall  grow — worse — and  that 
I  have  tried  to  be  good  will  not  help  me.  I — give  up." 

Suddenly  some  slight  movement  of  someone  in  front  of 
her  caused  a  break  in  the  black  wall  of  people  between  her 
and  the  grave,  and  unconsciously  looking  up,  she  saw  Peele's 
face. 

— "  We  therefore  commit  her  body  to  the  ground ;  earth 

to  earth, — in  sure  and  certain  hope  of  the  Resurrection " 

But  that  was  not  his  face.  That  was  the  face  of  a  middle- 
aged  man  with  a  reddish  nose  and  ugly  lines  round  his  eyes. 
Where  then  was  James  Peele?  It  was  he  who  was  chief 
mourner  at  this  funeral.  This  man,  who  stood  in  Peele's 
place — he  was  a  weak,  inert-looking  person,  with  discontent 
and  self-indulgence  and  even  pomposity  written  all  over  him. 
Bah! 

Suddenly  the  eyes  with  the  lines  round  them  met  Pam's, 
and  the  face  flushed. 

Yes,  this  man  was  Peele.  It  was  this  face  that  she  had 
so  feared  seeing, — these  eyes  she  had  so  dreaded  meeting, — 
and  the  other  man,  her  Peele,  the  one  who  had  lived  on  in 
her  memory,  in  her  heart,  was  dead. 

Her  tribute  to  his  memory  was  a  slow,  painful,  shamed 
blush  that  seemed  to  burn  her  whole  body  and  quicken  her 
heart-beat.  Then  she  drew  a  deep  breath.  She  was  free. 
She  was  a  widow,  possibly ;  the  man  she  had  loved  was  dead, 
— even  now  the  clergyman  had  buried  him,  and  she  must 
wear  mourning  for  him  all  her  life,  but  she  was  free. 

"  I — am  not  well,"  she  whispered  to  young  Belford,  who 


PAM   DECIDES  333 

stood  next  her,  as  the  crowd  began  to  move  away  from  the 
grave ;  "  would  you  mind  walking  home  with  me  ?  " 

Without  a  word  of  excuse  they  stole  away,  leaving  Mrs. 
Baring-Smythe  indignantly  astonished,  and  her  husband 
mildly  facetious  about  young  people  liking  to  be  together. 
But  Wilfrid  Belford  never  forgot  that  walk  over  the  iron- 
bound  fields  to  his  uncle's  house. 

Pam  spoke  not  a  word,  but  flew  across  the  uneven  ground 
like  a  big  black  bird.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  the  frost  in 
the  crannies  among  the  clods  over  which  she  skipped,  but  she 
did  not  look  ill,  and  her  eyes  were  black  with  excitement. 
When  she  had  reached  the  house  she  thanked  him  and 
rushed  upstairs  without  another  word,  and  when  the  Baring- 
Smythes  returned  they  found  their  peculiar  guest  at  the  door 
with  her  luggage  by  her  side. 

"  I  must  rush  back  to  town,"  she  said,  hastily,  "  and  I  can 
just  make  the  express  if  you  will  let  me  have  the  car- 
riage  "  Her  good-byes  were  polite  and  sufficing,  but 

she  offered  no  explanation  for  her  extraordinary  behaviour, 
and  to  this  day  Mrs.  Baring-Smythe  believes  her  to  have 
been  a  little  mad. 

Pam  never  could  recall  one  detail  of  her  homeward  jour- 
ney. She  was  soaring  in  freedom ;  chains  had  dropped  from 
her  very  soul ;  the  whole  world  was  hers,  and  she  was  young 
again.  She  was  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  her  change  of 
feelings,  for  to  her  it  was  not  a  change.  She  had  loved  a 
man  who  no  longer  existed,  that  was  all.  Not  because 
Peele  had  lost  the  austere  beauty  that  had  been  his,  nor  be- 
cause he  had  grown  old.  These  things,  she  knew,  would  have 


334  PAM   DECIDES 

made  no  difference  to  her,  and  truthful  as  she  always  was 
to  herself,  she  admitted  without  argument,  without  excuses, 
without  self-laudation,  these  several  facts. 

"  It  is,"  she  told  herself,  as  the  train  drew  into  Euston, 
"  simply  that  he  has,  since  I  saw  him,  grown  to  be  another 
man.  And  I  do  not  love  that  man !  " 

She  recalled  Lensky's  stare  of  surprise,  when,  that  day  at 
the  Villa,  he  had  read  Peek's  letter.  No  wonder  he  had 
been  amazed  I 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"EIGHTY-SEVEN  Chimes  Lane,  Westminster,  cabby—" 

Ah,  this  old  London!  Is  there  any  place  in  the  whole 
round  world  like  it?  When  it  frowns  as  well  as  when  it 
smiles;  in  its  dingiest  as  well  as  its  gayest  quarters;  in  sum- 
mer or  in  winter,  it  is,  to  its  true  lovers,  unique  and  adora- 
ble. And  Pam  was  a  faithful,  indulgent,  tender  lover,  and 
leaning  forward  in  her  hansom,  watched  the  crowded  streets 
with  a  deep  glow  in  her  eyes. 

"  How  shall  I  live  now,  you  old  town?"  she  said  to  it 
under  her  breath, — "  now  that  I  am  not  afraid !  " 

It  was,  after  all,  as  much  fear  as  love  from  which  she  had 
suffered;  a  crippling,  unnerving  fear.  Her  immense  relief 
brought  to  her  a  glow  of  love  for  humanity  that  reddened 
her  cheeks  and  shortened  her  breath.  All  those  people  pass- 
ing in  the  street  interested  her;  she  would  have  liked  to 
know  all  their  stories,  to  sympathise  with  them.  To  know! 
After  all,  that  is  what  counts. 

She  recalled  a  verse  she  had  once  cut  from  a  newspaper, 
and  learned. 

"Life  is  my  lover.    I  will  know  his  heart, 
His  mind,  his  soul,  his  weakness  and  his  strength. 
Study  him  will  I,  therefore,  till  at  length, 
I  know  not  him  from  mine  own  self  apart. 
Wherefore  I  look  on  all  he  shows  to  me, 
Sights  beautiful,  sights  evil,  and  sights  sad; 
For  naught  in  him  unworthy  is,  or  bad, 
335 


336  PAM   DECIDES 

As  all  he  is  and  has  been  he  must  be. 
His  hands  are  strong  and  mine  are  -weak  and  white 
Sometimes  he  grasps  mine  till  they  ache  and  burn, 
Yet  never  from  his  wide  gaze  will  I  turn, 
For  I  must  know  him  in  his  cruel  might. 
Sometimes  we   laugh,  sometimes  together  weep, 
And  when  I  know  him  quite,  then  can  I  sleep." 

"  I  will  learn, — I  will  try  to  know"  thought  the  girl, 
unable  to  put  into  words  the  feeling  that  possessed  her. 
"  And  I  will  try  to  be  useful  and  good." 

She  was  ashamed  of  her  loss  of  courage  when  on  the  eve 
of  being  brought  face  to  face  with  Peele.  After  all  her 
struggles  to  have  been  so  weak! 

But  now  she  would  waste  no  more  time.  She  would 
make  of  her  life  something  worthy,  something  beautiful,  and 
she  would  endeavour  in  every  way  to  teach  the  baby,  as  she 
grew  older,  to  use  the  hours  as  they  came,  and  to  appreciate 
and  understand  the  world  in  which  she  lived. 

It  was  a  very  cold  evening  and  the  lights  had  frosty 
halos.  At  Trafalgar  Square  she  burst  into  a  sudden  laugh, 
recalling  her  talk  with  Ratty  on  the  steps  of  the  National 
Gallery.  Poor  Ratty,  she  had  been  very  hard  on  him! 

Suddenly  up  went  her  umbrella.  "  Stop,  cabby,  stop !  I 
want  to  speak  to  that  gentleman — there,  in  the  long  coat. 
Jack!  " 

Lensky,  who  was  leisurely  crossing  the  street,  turned  at 
the  sound  of  her  voice.  "  Jack — I  want  to  speak  to  you !  " 

He  came  obediently  to  the  cab,  and  then,  recognising  her, 
held  out  his  hand. 


PAM   DECIDES  337 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  he  said,  politely. 

*'  I — I  am  very  well.    I — want  to  tell  you  something." 

He  leaned  over  the  wheel,  peering  up  at  her  transfigured 
face.  "  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Many  things.  Get  in  and  go  on  a  little  way  with  me, — 
I'll  set  you  down  where  you  like " 

But  he  drew  back.  "  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  murmured,  in 
a  conventional  tone,  "  but  I  cannot." 

She  flushed.    "  Oh ! — you  mean — you  will  not." 

"  If  you  prefer  the  expression." 

His  face  was  absolutely  emotionless. 

"  But — oh,  I  am  so  happy,  and — I  must  tell  you.  Vou- 
ch, please  come,"  she  stammered. 

"  No.  I  am  glad  that  you  are  happy ;  believe  me,  I  am 
sincerely  glad,  but  I  will  not  come  with  you.  And  now, — 
you  will  excuse  me " 

He  smiled  as  he  again  held  out  his  hand,  but  even  his 
gentle  smile  was  inexorable,  and  she  knew  that  in  another 
moment  he  would  be  gone ;  she  would  have  lost  him  forever. 
And  that  she  could  not  bear. 

Losing  all  sense  of  pride,  intent  only  on  making  good  use 
of  this  last  chance,  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on,  not  in,  his, 
"  Listen ;  I — I  want  you.  You  must  come.  So  many  things 
have  happened,  everything,  my  whole  life  is  changed,  and — 
just  this  once  you  must  come." 

Resignedly,  but  with  unfailing  politeness,  he  obeyed,  and 
when  the  hansom  had  started,  said  gently,  "  Well  ?  What 
has  happened  ?  " 

She  knew  that  he  had  come  with  her  only  because  his  code 


338  PAM    DECIDES 

did  not  permit  him  to  refuse  a  woman's  pleading,  that  he 
hated  being  with  her;  that  he  would  at  the  first  possible 
moment  escape.  And  yet  she  was  happy.  She  had  missed 
him  so  atrociously,  and  now  here  he  was,  his  imperturbable 
profile  outlined  against  the  dark  side  of  the  hansom,  his 
hands  clasped  on  his  umbrella. 

"  I — am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  began,  after  a  pause. 

"  Thanks." 

"  And — what  has  happened  is  this.  I  have  just  come  from 
Lady  Henrietta  Peele's  funeral." 

"  Yes.    I  read  about  her  death." 

*  And — I  am  so  happy !  " 

He  turned,  without  the  slightest  change  of  expression. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that — it  is  all  like  a  bad  dream, — that  I  have 
seen  him," — -as  she  spoke  the  cabman  drew  up  sharply,  and 
a  fire-engine  roared  its  way  towards  them,  drowning  her 
voice.  When  it  had  passed  she  went  on,  nervously,  "  and — 
I  am  cured." 

"  You  mean  that — you  no  longer  love  him?  " 

"  No.  That — I  never  loved  the  James  Peele  whom  you 
knew.  My  James  Peele — is  dead.  Do  you  understand? 
He  has  so  changed  that  he  is — a  stranger  to  me.  Oh,  please 
be  glad  with  me !  " 

Lensky  smiled  pleasantly  as  they  turned  into  the  shabby 
quiet  of  Westminster.  "  I  am  indeed  glad ;  gladder  than  I 
can  say."  As  he  spoke  he  made  a  movement  towards  sig- 
nalling the  cabman  with  his  umbrella,  but  Pam  caught  his 
arm.  "  Jack,"  she  burst  out,  almost  incoherently,  "  you 


PAM    DECIDES  339 

mustn't  go;  I  can't  let  you  go — I — I  missed  you  too 
horribly " 

Very  gently  he  drew  his  arm  from  her  hand.  "You 
must  let  me  get  out,"  he  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  are  happy, 
but — I  cannot  be  your  friend,  and  I  will  not  try  to  be.  And, 
— this  is  painful." 

They  had  reached  Chimes  Lane,  and  in  a  moment  the 
hansom  would  stop.  "Jack,"  said  Pam,  desperately,  "will 
you  marry  me  ?  " 

It  was  nearly  dark  here,  and  he  leaned  over,  vamly  trying 
to  see  her  face.  The  flower  in  his  coat  brushed  her  cheek. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  inevitably. 

"  i  mean  it, — indeed  I  do.  I — have  missed  jou  so;  I 
have  been  so  lonely, — I  want  you,  I  want  you! '' 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  he  said,  quietly,  "  Lone- 
tiness  is  not  enough  for — marriage.  You  remember  that  day 
in  the  Abbey  Cloister?  I — I  am  not  an  old  woman,  Pam, 
and — I  love  you."  Her  heart  was  beating  wildly  as  she 
answered. 

"  And  I  love  you.  I  didn't  know,  because  it  is — so  dif- 
ferent, but  I  do  love  you." 

"  I  shall  not  be  content  with — what  you  give  Pilgrim,  or 
the  Duchess." 

She  hesitated,  searching  for  words.  Then  at  last  she  said, 
as  the  cabman,  who  had  passed  the  house,  turned  and  drew 
back  towards  it,  "  I  think — you  needn't  be  afraid.  He  was 
first,  and — I  shall  never  forget  it,  but — of  all  people  in  the 
world  I  love  you  best,  and — you  may  love  me  as  much  as 
you  like.  I  never  thought  it  would  be  like — this." 


340  PAM   DECIDES 

Without  a  word  he  took  her  into  his  arms,  and  for  the 
first  time  kissed  her. 

"  O  Lord  our  God," 
sang  Big  Ben,  though  only  the  cabman  heard  him, 

"Be  Thou  our  Guide, 
That  by  Thy  Help 
No  foot  may  slide." 

Then,  as  the  chimes  whirred  into  silence,  and  his  fares 
made  no  move  towards  getting  out,  the  cabby  peered  down 
at  them,  and  after  a  silent  chuckle  said,  hoarsely,  "  Aighty- 
seven,  Laidy." 


THE  END 


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